I let my fingers fall into the ivory keys,
Procuring the first notes of the song.
The A section slides by too quickly,
My confidence waning as the less familiar B section draws nearer.
Out of the corner of my eye I see him gazing intensely at me from across the room,
Expecting a mistake.
I begin to sweat,
My blood pressure rises,
My fingers tense,
The inevitable occurs.

One finger slides out of place,
One chord sounds slightly off.
Though I continue to play,
He and I both know of the mistake.
The discordancy rings in my head,
I cannot think of anything but the blunder.
He leans back in his chair and his body language tells me he no longer desires to put forth the effort to listen.
I grow increasingly upset with myself,
I think of his growing agitation.
As my mind wanders off the song,
My fingers once again slide out of place.
He tells me to stop.
I have disappointed him.

Why do I continue with this aggravation?
Because of him:
A wealth of information,
A world traveller,
A speaker of five languages.
He tells me of his music lessons in Italy,
His favorite café in a side street of Paris,
His expulsion from Spain.

He speaks of his dreams to move to South America,
Bringing with him his beloved piano,
A possession so prized it resembles a child under the careful eye of a proud mother.
I have no doubt he will follow this dream,
And continue to live spontaneously.

He sees the world as a field,
A place where once must examine the blades of grass,
Inhale the natural scent of the flowers,
Dig one’s hand in the dirt,
Mingling with the worms and ants.
Simply feeling.