He awoke with the remnants of a dream. He remembered it being dark with the distant rumble of thunder. The storm slowly came closer and the curtains on the open windows fluttered in the wind. He could hear the sound of the wind in the fir trees near his home. Now he heard the sound of big fat drops of rain on the ground outside his window, the beginning of a deluge. The rain was insistent then slowly faded as it moved on. Slowly the thunder faded as well, leaving him wondering what it was all about. It was not the first time he had such a dream, if anything he seemingly had them more frequently. But he remembered none of them fully, he always awoke wondering what it meant.
Otherwise his humdrum life of programming for a conglomerate moved on one day at a time. He shared a small two-bedroom apartment with a slob who was always leaving it messy and dirty with clothes strewn about and dishes piled in the sink. His mundane job was uninteresting and unfulfilling. In all, it was a nothing life.
His friend Darrin texted him a url which announced a concert being given in an obscure hall in town. No one seemed to know much if anything about the pianist, a woman. There was a brief mention online of people lining up for tickets. On a lark, mainly to distract him from his life, he sought out this theater. There was a line, one that seemed to stretch around the building. Shortly after he had joined the line it began to move, much quicker than he was used to or expected.
He reached the ticket window, stood there for a moment and was handed a ticket. "What does it cost?" he asked the woman behind the window.
"Nothing, it's free"
Mystified, he walked away. He looked around for information. Outside the theater there was no advertising, nothing to let you know what was happening. He looked at his ticket, a purple piece of paper with the date of the event and a number, his being ten. How was that possible? There had certainly been many more people ahead of him in that line. He put the ticket in his wallet, remembering the date and time.
On that day he joined a group of people waiting to get in. The doors opened and people streamed in. It was a very small theater, one he had never been in. On the stage was a piano and a stool, otherwise it was bare. At exactly seven a slight woman appeared on stage dressed in a black floor length gown that hugged her figure. She sat at the piano and the lights dimmed to near darkness. There was sound in the distance, which he realized was an approaching storm.
There seemed to be speakers everywhere as the walls and floor rumbled as well. Then there was the sound of wind in the trees, the crack of lightening followed by the rumble of thunder. It seemingly grew closer and closer and it was joined by the sound of the piano. Barely heard at first, the sound of the piano grew louder and louder, rhapsodizing with the thunder which now dominated the theater. There was a dissonance between the two that assaulted the senses.
Then there was the sound of the first drops of rain glancing off the ground outside and the dissonance faded to a sublime piano solo. He realized he had heard this before but had no idea of where. He closed his eyes and just listened to the piano solo, the sound of the rain, the rumble of the thunder. The sound waxed and waned as it surrounded him, a veritable treat for the senses. He was bathed in sound which created a new feeling, an undefined longing. He lost any sense of time, just lost in the sounds that filled the theater. In time he realized it was passing and the sounds of thunder and lightning moved away into the distance and faded away.
There was silence for a moment, followed by a haunting melody from the pianist that filled the theater with a delicate sound after all the hue and cry of the storm from before, then silence again returned with the house lights slowly rising. The pianist was gone, a wisp in the wind. He glanced at his watch and realized over ninety minutes had passed. As people slowly filed out there was quiet conversation as people tried to describe what they had heard and felt. He reached the lobby and realized there was no booth selling copies of the pianist's music.
"Where do I get the soundtrack?" he asked the man next to him.
"You don't," was the reply. "There has never been a recording of any of her music. It's just in your head."
"I want to hear it again. When's the next concert?" he asked.
The man gave him a URL. "Watch this site. Her next concert will be announced there. This was my tenth show. I've traveled all around as each is announced. You could say I'm hooked on it. It's a feeling unlike any other. I just want more, to the detriment of other aspects of my life. I hear it in my dreams, I find myself humming it, it's just haunting me. It grows after each performance, something about it filling my senses with light and sound washing away my concerns."
At home he prepared for bed and lay down. He realized that it was in his dreams that he had heard those sounds. He tried to sleep but was too wound to fall asleep. He listened to other music, watched some terrible streaming show and drank steadily. He fell asleep on the couch, his head tilted back, his mouth open.
The next day brought memories of the music, it would rise and fall throughout the day, distracting him from his work of programming. This continued for weeks until his obsessive search of her site yielded a date and place of her next concert. It was three hundred miles away so he made flight arrangements and found a hotel room.
The day arrived and he was able to get a ticket, this one marked nine. The second performance was as sublime as the first. He recognized a couple of people from the last concert. They huddled together, sharing the moment. He found out her name was Portia Raimundo. There was no mention of her online, not even fan sites. There were occasional concerts and nothing else. Trying to get closer to her, he stood on the corner of the theater hoping to catch a glimpse of her as she left. After waiting over an hour he gave up. The theater door was still open so he went back inside. The stage was empty, the piano gone. It's as if she had never been there.
At the hotel he wandered down to the bar and joined that group of tortured souls. A woman walked in and looked around before sliding onto the bar seat next to him. He turned and said hello.
"Good to see you, Jamie," was her reply.
How did she know him? He was in a strange town, in a nothing bar sitting by himself. He wracked his brain trying to place her in his memory.
"You saw me at the concert," she said as if reading his mind.
He had a complete blank. "Since you know my name, I should have yours."
Instead of answering she said, "how about we have this conversation in your room,"
He gladly left with her, his erection at half mast already. Once coats were shed, he could see her more clearly. She was slim with minor curves at breast and hip. Other than the face you might think her a girl just beginning to bud a figure. The face, with her mane of brown hair, her luminous brown eyes and beautiful smile was definitely that of a woman.
"How do you know me."
"We met at the concert," was her enigmatic reply. His next question was silenced as she began to kiss him. The only sounds were those of clothes being discarded, kisses exchanged and sucks of his now fully erect cock followed by the sounds of two bodies on the bed, the rhythmic sounds of flesh on flesh, the slap of two bodies together. They were breathing hard as the excitement built and built to a wondrous orgasm, a release of everything. Then there was the sound of two people tangled together breathing slowly in a deep sleep.
He awoke alone in his bed the next morning. There was no evidence of his liaison with the woman at the bar. They had come to his room, he was sure. He could remember how she felt, the noises she made, the excitement of her orgasm and he of his. It was real he thought to himself, at least it felt real. Surely no dream could be that vivid.
He returned home and resumed his life. He felt detached from his friends and from work, realizing he and only he had experienced her music. It set him apart. Conversely it was as if he was seen for the first time, his invisible life had come crashing down. People, especially women, would talk to him unbidden. Over the next year he attended six more concerts, visiting Miami, Charleston, Portland, Salt Lake City, Minneapolis and Little Rock.The music resonated in his mind and body. He remembered the guy from the first concert who said he was addicted. He smiled as he thought the same of himself. The music and the memories made his life livable.
