Elegie
Elegie
I sat down to play. My dress fell over my knee gracefully, like a field of plum wheat blowing in the wind. With a few stray locks pushed out of my eyes, I was ready. My gaze turned to the orchestra sitting behind me. My deep purple dress stood out against their black suits. Their eyes followed mine to the conductor as I gave a brief nod. The pianist began.
“Each and every piece you play is a story, and each note a chapter,” my teacher told me time and time again. Elegie was no exception. It told the story of a lonely woman, shy and afraid. It also told of a man.
I saw the characters again as I closed my eyes and began to play. I knew their faces well, and I wondered if their story would ever change, if their fates would ever be different.
My chin rested on my violin and the woman’s chin rested on her hands. The wind played with her auburn hair as she sat on the porch of what I assumed to be her home. She beat her fingers gently against her cheekbones as if she were the one playing each note, not I. People walked past her on the sidewalk, yet no cars passed in the road. Her mind slowly began to wander and she got up off the concrete. Brushing dust from her jeans, she took off down the street.
She let her feet take her where they pleased, and she ended up at a small coffee shop. She stood out amongst the scattered men in suits, but ordered a small cup of tea and sat down in a cushioned sofa. Eyes followed her to her seat, but were quickly drawn back to yesterday’s copy of the Wall Street Journal. She drank her tea in peace, but as she got up to leave, another person in casual clothing came in. Feeling relieved that she wasn’t alone, she sat back down as the man came in her direction with a mug of something.
“You don’t come here often, do you?” The man said, bringing a lighter atmosphere into the room.
I smiled discreetly, but she flashed a grin. “No,” she replied. “I usually get tea from the coffee machine at the library.” She spent her time reading and buying books.
His expression wasn’t one of glee, but he wasn’t appalled by her. “What do you read?”
“ Everything, really, but I love music.” She shifted her weight to one side and the man sat down next to her. “I collect sheet music.”
He didn’t reply, but she believed that it meant that he was trying to think of what to say. Her optimism was naïve at best, but she lived for human contact.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the time in the shop, but she was determined to see him again. She went to the shop again the next day, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t appear again until three days later, when she had almost lost faith in him.
He sat near her again, and they had a pleasing conversation. My quick fingers played out the friendship that bonded them together and time seemed to speed up in their story.
After a few months, she began to wonder why they never talked about her music. Their conversations always either drifted away from the subject or ended once it was mentioned.
She woke up after they had ended one of their conversations when she offered to show him her favorite piece of music. Her eyes burned from a bright light when she opened them, but when she looked at her alarm clock, it was early enough for the sun to be dim. The low rumble of my violin matched a violent sound coming from her living room.
Slipping on a pair of slippers, she shuffled to the room where the noise was. When she got there, a terrible sight made her eyes well up with tears.
There, in her fireplace, sat a burning copy of Elegie.
I opened my eyes as the applause rang through the theatre, much like the fire that was still playing like a movie in my mind. As I got up to bow, as I always did, I saw the woman of the music in the audience, silently weeping and clapping harder than anyone else.
“Each and every piece you play is a story, and each note a chapter,” my teacher told me time and time again. Elegie was no exception. It told the story of a lonely woman, shy and afraid. It also told of a man.
I saw the characters again as I closed my eyes and began to play. I knew their faces well, and I wondered if their story would ever change, if their fates would ever be different.
My chin rested on my violin and the woman’s chin rested on her hands. The wind played with her auburn hair as she sat on the porch of what I assumed to be her home. She beat her fingers gently against her cheekbones as if she were the one playing each note, not I. People walked past her on the sidewalk, yet no cars passed in the road. Her mind slowly began to wander and she got up off the concrete. Brushing dust from her jeans, she took off down the street.
She let her feet take her where they pleased, and she ended up at a small coffee shop. She stood out amongst the scattered men in suits, but ordered a small cup of tea and sat down in a cushioned sofa. Eyes followed her to her seat, but were quickly drawn back to yesterday’s copy of the Wall Street Journal. She drank her tea in peace, but as she got up to leave, another person in casual clothing came in. Feeling relieved that she wasn’t alone, she sat back down as the man came in her direction with a mug of something.
“You don’t come here often, do you?” The man said, bringing a lighter atmosphere into the room.
I smiled discreetly, but she flashed a grin. “No,” she replied. “I usually get tea from the coffee machine at the library.” She spent her time reading and buying books.
His expression wasn’t one of glee, but he wasn’t appalled by her. “What do you read?”
“ Everything, really, but I love music.” She shifted her weight to one side and the man sat down next to her. “I collect sheet music.”
He didn’t reply, but she believed that it meant that he was trying to think of what to say. Her optimism was naïve at best, but she lived for human contact.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the time in the shop, but she was determined to see him again. She went to the shop again the next day, but he wasn’t there. He didn’t appear again until three days later, when she had almost lost faith in him.
He sat near her again, and they had a pleasing conversation. My quick fingers played out the friendship that bonded them together and time seemed to speed up in their story.
After a few months, she began to wonder why they never talked about her music. Their conversations always either drifted away from the subject or ended once it was mentioned.
She woke up after they had ended one of their conversations when she offered to show him her favorite piece of music. Her eyes burned from a bright light when she opened them, but when she looked at her alarm clock, it was early enough for the sun to be dim. The low rumble of my violin matched a violent sound coming from her living room.
Slipping on a pair of slippers, she shuffled to the room where the noise was. When she got there, a terrible sight made her eyes well up with tears.
There, in her fireplace, sat a burning copy of Elegie.
I opened my eyes as the applause rang through the theatre, much like the fire that was still playing like a movie in my mind. As I got up to bow, as I always did, I saw the woman of the music in the audience, silently weeping and clapping harder than anyone else.