Our concerto always crescendoed when we listened to poetry. Everything was always right in the dark theater, when my head laid on her shoulder. I drew the melody on her hands and arms in blue ink, and I'm sure that if I ever tried to play it on my violin it wouldn't happen put it to justice. I knew I was no Bach or Mozart but I knew that I— we? had time to perfect it. The song scrawled across her arms was nothing but a jumble of sixteenth notes and dotted half notes, but she didn't need to know that. She always smiled when I finished.
I laid my head on her shoulder just like always and my hand rested on the armrest separating us, barely touching hers, and we stared at the figure gesturing emphatically on the brightly lit stage. And then, even though it was silent except for the low voices of dreary poets, I swear that our staccato heartbeats were pounding in time to the rhythm of the spoken-word, the sonnets, limericks, and in the background someone was playing the song on your arm, our notes accelerating, rapid, strong, but sustained. Accented notes against the dark shadows of a theater.