Hey readers! I haven't written in a while, but I've been wanting to try my hand at a perspective story. I've seen a few other writers do it and I love reading them. So after reading this one, make sure you check out Perspective: His.
As always, feedback and comments are welcome. Thanks for reading!!
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Perspective: Hers
I looked myself up and down in the mirror, "This is silly, Maxine. Pull yourself together," I sighed, talking to my reflection.
The annual Valentine's Day couples dinner was in full swing and I was supposed to be in the church hall already. I had performers that needed me. The dinner was a big deal for most of the church congregation and the nervousness of everyone who had volunteered to sing was bound to be crippling. I was the accompanist. I was my duty to hold their hand and help them power through the stomach butterflies. I just couldn't bring myself to leave the bathroom.
I had seen him walk in with his grandmother on his arm and it was the most adorable thing ever. The gray haired woman strode proudly next her grandson, a look on her face that I hadn't been there since her husband died last year. It was obvious how much she had wanted to come to the couples dinner tonight and even more obvious how thankful she was to have a good hearted grandson.
She'd been talking about it for weeks, and me being responsible for brewing the tea for fellowship every Sunday afternoon, I had heard each loving word. They were spot on, too. Her grandson was a looker. Tall, with a trained build and tonight he sported a perfectly fitted white dress shirt and slacks. If I had heard right, he was single and just turned twenty-five. A little older than me, but well within the parameters of an acceptable age variance I thought.
It was incredibly foolish of me, and I knew it, but I wanted him. I knew he was to be the only other single person here tonight and the stupid Cinderella like story line had been playing in my head since I knew he was coming. My last boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped me a year ago, and after that night, I had only dreamed that a man could bring me pleasure. But true to every pitiful stereotype befitted to girls my age, I dreamed that Geoff could be that man.
For weeks, I pined for him not knowing what he looked like, what he sounded like, but yearning for him. It was stupid. I was stupid. This was a fucking fairy tale and I needed to let it go. He wasn't going to see me from across the room and immediately want me. In my skirt and sweater, my hair in a tight little bun, I looked like a church mouse. He wasn't going to approach me and grant me any sort of kindness. I was a complete stranger and a nerd at that. And most of all, he wasn't going to take me home and ravish me until I shook in his arms. That was impossible.
So I straightened my posture and patted away the wrinkles on my sweater. I pointed at my reflection, "Get your head out of the clouds, you fool. There's a show to put on and people need you."
I exited the restroom and Pastor Mike was already on the stage greeting the dinners as they snacked on dessert. As I found my way to my seat wondering just how long I had been in the bathroom, it was as if the world was mocking me. There was Geoff, standing by the dessert table, innocently chewing on one of the brownies I had baked for the event. I smiled and tried hard to look away. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and he looked like he was really enjoying that brownie. I snapped my stare away and rose to my feet upon hearing Mr. and Mrs. Perry talking into the microphone. They were the first to sing this evening and I was supposed to be at the piano already.
Thank goodness for the great comfort that comes from sitting at the piano. I relished the safe feeling that I get every time my fingers grace the keys. Though the surroundings may be different, the piano is always the same. My eyes wonder about the room, but the keys never change and the notes are always there for me. As of late, that piano had been the thing that I clung to in my horrid loneliness and self-denial.
The Perry's sang, as well as the other four performers I had on the set list for the night. I prided myself in being the best accompanist I could be and while each of them sang their love out for the world to hear, I carried them. I brought them to each crescendo and held them until the fermata passed. The years I had spent padding my fingertips along the ivory gave me the ability to instantly bend and change the measures when someone came in too early or missed their cue completely. Every song sounded perfect to the audience despite the many mistakes the performers and I knew had been there. I was damned good at my job.
The night had fell into the usual state it always did. The couples danced and socialized, eventually leaving to tend to whatever plan lay solely for the company of each other. I had made my rounds congratulating each one of my performers and assuring those who still seemed rattled by their performance. It helped for a while to distract me from the stupid girly feelings that were bubbling up inside me.
I had wished all through the set list that maybe, just maybe, he was looking at me and not those whose voices graced the church hall. I prayed that he had some musical appreciation and would somehow be drawn to the little church mouse sitting at the piano. It was incredibly stupid that I craved the attention of a man who didn't even know me from any other girl on the street, but my fairy tale had rooted itself too deep. It was after nine, when the dwindling of the crowd became noticeable and he was nowhere to be found.
"Max?" a voice I knew to be from Pastor Mike came from behind me. "What's eating you?"
I sighed. I definitely did not want to discuss the ridiculously unfounded disappointment I was going through. "Nothing," I lied.
He sat at the empty table with me and we watched many members on the congregation say their goodbyes. "I remember being single on Valentine's Day," he whispered. "It was always torture."
I turned to give him a sad smile. "You can say that again."
"I can offer you my son for company?" he nodded to the left side of the room where his three year old was sneaking another brownie from the dessert table. Pastor Mike watched as his son filled his mouth with the brownie, getting copious amounts all over his face and fingers. "Although, I can't say that's a face anyone would want to kiss."
I laughed, watching the three year old lick his fingers and run off to find some other form of entertainment. "Thanks, but no thanks. I'll be fine, really."
Pastor Mike stood up and sighed. "It's hard now, but you're an amazing young lady and there's sure to be some amazing young man that can't wait to get a hold of you. Patients, Maxine."
I smiled though the pity in his words cut deep. Why did I need consolation? There was a surge of emotions in my head and I needed to work them out. "Why don't you take your family home? I can lock up the church."
He gave me a confused look, but noticed my fingers twiddling around in my lap. "Ah, you want to practice," he nodded in approval. "Well, I'll leave you to it then. Have a nice night."
There were a few bodies moving around in the hall, cleaning up and gathering tables together, but I was sure none of them would mind. It wouldn't be too long before they were gone and if I was already playing I wouldn't have to say anything about why I didn't have a date to get home to. I took the two stairs up to the small stage and blinked away tears as I greeted my closest friend.
I wouldn't need my sheet music. I knew what to play. I ran my fingers along the keys falling into the comfortable two-four melody of my favorite composer. The five sharps had once been extremely difficult for me to wrap my head around, but now they came naturally. Every note had been etched into my soul through years of playing it and at once I felt an overwhelming sense of comfort.
I began silently asking my piano, asking Chopin all the questions that had been plaguing my mind all night. What was it about this stupid holiday that made me all emotionally crazy? What was it about that guy that I wanted so much? Did I really want him or would I have settled with any decent looking man that took interest? No, that one I knew the answer to.
I fell into the second portion of the piece with the small runs coupled with the triplets, sextuplets, and leaps abounding in the bass. I wanted Geoff. I remembered the way his dark brown hair would have been just long enough to run my fingers through, and the way he looked once his shirt sleeves were rolled up. How content he had looked nibbling the brownie I had made. Would men ever understand the little things that drove woman crazy? I excitedly ran through the heart of the piece, past the fortissimo and into the finger blurring embellishments that marked the much needed return into the first movement of the piece.
Thank God, for they composition style of Chopin. Not done with my thoughts, I sank back in to the beginning of the piece, perfectly able to loop the ends together as if Chopin knew that I would need to play more. My friends and I, the piano and Chopin, were having a wonderful time and I was beginning to feel much better about my predicament. With every note, they assured me it would me alright and I closed my eyes and listened to their assurance gratefully.
"Whatcha playing?" an unfamiliar voice tried to interrupt. I was used to this. When I got particularly emotional it echoed in my playing, making me sound five times better than I would normally be.
"Nocturne in F sharp major. It's Chopin," I replied as if the interruption had never taken place. I assumed it was a church member lingering around. They would go away as soon as they realized I didn't want to be bothered. They always did.
