I always slept with my bedroom window open so I could hear him play. Each night, as I reached gently for the peace of sleep, I listened to him surrender to his piano. From the apartment above me, the dove-like harmonies drifted down the side of the building, across my windowsill, and curled up next to me in bed. I would roll onto my side and they would hold me close until I flickered off to sleep. I fell in love with him just like that.
The first time I met him; I was flipping through my mail, head down into credit card offers and utility bills, when I clipped the heel of his shoe. I apologized for my carelessness before I looked up. When he excused me, his voice carried the same melody as his music, and I knew it was he. I was too embarrassed to introduce myself, so I slunk up the stairs while he waited at the elevator.
That night, he played for me. I could tell by the way he crept over me, as if he had been waiting for me to undress, as if he had been waiting for me to slide under the sheets. My hands itched to dance with him and I pulled one from under my pillow, down across my breasts and between my legs. My fingers moved tirelessly across my smooth flesh. His music penetrated me and, with the help of my own touch, it swam deep inside me, kissing each crevice.
My other hand moved upwards toward my breast, and with my palm cupping underneath, I pinched my nipple and pulled up. My fingers moved faster then. My heart racing, I pushed the soles of my feet down and lifted my hips up, trying to reach him in the apartment above me. I bit my lower lip and held my breath, breathing sporadically and holding tight to each intake of air, reaching for the threshold of bliss. Each time his hands crawled up the keys, I came closer to him and, when I at last gave in, his song ended, and my spirit faded into the night with the last note that he played.
We met like this for months, his music finding me in the calm of night. I wondered if he could smell me while he played, if he could hear me writhe under the sheets. I began to breathe his name, his music, the way he loved me. I was consumed by thought of him and, as each day passed, I ached to have him closer.
I don't know what it was about that evening. Perhaps it was spring crawling under my skin. I took one last look at myself in the mirror, pulled the stray hairs from the corner of my forehead back behind my ear, and I left my apartment to find him. It took just a few small taps on his door before he answered and the door opened, revealing his boyish smile. I asked him if I could watch him play and with just a slight hesitation he welcomed me into his home.
All of these months had passed with only a vision of what his piano had looked like. I pictured it a number of ways. I had pretended that he would fuck me against the side of an upright, or I would straddle him and kiss him while he continued to play. I fantasized about laying atop a baby grand while he ate me out, and him lifting me up and laying me down on top of the piano where he would join me and we would make love until the morning.
Never, in all of my nights imagining this, did I ever picture a more beautiful piano. He told me that it was from the Steinway Crown Jewel collection, in a Macassar Ebony finish. I listened but was focused only on the way it called to me, standing out in his otherwise nondescript living room. The piano was magnificent and he broke down the specifications as if I would understand what he was talking about.
I wanted to relax and sink into his sofa but I wasn't sure I belonged there, so I balanced myself on the very edge of the cushion and watched him approach the piano bench. He shifted several times before he settled into his seat. I wondered if this was always the way he started. His fingers touched down and gave life to Beethoven's Piano Sonata No. 14. He told me he was playing in C-sharp minor but I didn't know enough to care. I only knew that it was perfect.
