And Her Fingers Danced Across The Keys

As she lay entangled deep in her royal-blue sheets, she raised her hands against the sun and gazed at the light passing by her fragile, translucent skin. As if life had stopped passing for a handful of moments, she admired the beauty of the plain, often ignored sun rays, as they got through the window glass, to her fingers, and past them, on her face.

Her dirty-blond hair was spread almost artistically around her head, on the pillow. Its color, straw-like, but darker, complimented endlessly her light hazel eyes. They shone as if they were made of sun rays filtered in honey.

She abruptly rose her body, smiling faintly at the dizziness that came with the much too sudden change of level. Whenever she rose from bed, her gaze would first fall onto her piano, beyond the curtain dancing in the light morning sea breeze. Whenever she rose from bed, the sound receiving her was the sound of waves crashing, harder, or lighter into the cliffs under the villa she resided in.

The piano looked positively inviting for the unknowing eye. Its beauty screamed in silence, it tempted to touch. For her eye though, it was as if it released a chant of calling, a chant of deep want, as if it longed for her as she longed for it. Within seconds after her wake, the silent murmur, the chant got too strong for her will, so she bore her thin body onto the balcony, in front of the piano.

She would take a deep breath of the warm morning air and her long, thin fingers covered the keys. Then, the attraction was magnetic. Her fingers attracted the keys as the keys attracted her fingers, and the passionate song started emerging magically from the balcony as if it was only natural.

The girl closed her eyes as the music seemed to take a tangible form and wrap itself around her body in a warm, comforting gesture. Any person who heard the sound would instantly feel the emotions conveyed in the song, in this case, happiness.

The first, and generally only person it made happy, was the proud parent of the talented girl. As soon as light, morning-appropriate notes were heard from somewhere above, this man put on a mature, calm, soothed smile, and thought, once again, that "Angie is up.".

In a few minutes, as he got busy helping the cook and the maid prepare breakfast and read the paper here and there, he could not wait to see his beautiful daughter again. He would help the maid set the table on the terrace, outside, to content her and say a few light-spirit jokes, anxious to see the center of his universe, his 17-year-old daughter, Angelina.

He pretended not to be so anxious, he pretended not to miss her even though it
had been only a night since he had seen her. So he sat on the terrace, reading the paper. As soon as the tall, beautiful girl made her appearance, he could hold in his happiness no more. Seeing her perfectly contoured lips curve into a pretty smile, a smile just for him, completed by eyes livelier than any he had ever seen, was the perfect, perfect, way to start a day.

Every morning before breakfast, his Angie came downstairs after playing her beloved piano for a good fifteen minutes. She'd smile and giggle at the sight of her also beloved father pretending to read the paper. Then, she would run to him, and hug his seated figure from behind, closing her eyes at the soothing sensation she had as she heard his deep, mature, yet lovely laughter and felt his caress on her arm.

A monotonous routine? Why no. It was their kind of heavens.