Longing

How long can a man wait?

His fingers blurred over the bone-white keys, setting loose a melody that haunted the barren rooms of his two-story home. Not a stick of furniture beyond that piano graced the house, but there was enough dust in the corners to tell of how long he had occupied it.

At three in the morning, his shoulder-length black hair fell to guard his wearily bowed head. Every night was the same, and it would stay that way until she came and gave his fingers a reason to stop. No matter how long his days, he would spend the night hours haunting his own home. Just another Phantom of the Opera, his love nowhere to be found.

Four years, night after night, his neighbors had lived with the melancholy cries of his soul being emitted by the instrument she had no idea he played. So many things she didn't know, and couldn't know until she came to her senses.

She had married out of convenience, out of pressure from her family and friends. He had given up the world for the day when she would realize that convenience wasn't enough, when she would realize she wanted to be with the man she loved.

A discordant note rang out, as a wave of doubt struck him. He crushed it ruthlessly, and the music once again filled the empty home.

His eyes were closed, but he could see everything he needed behind them. The long, luxurious fall of soft brown curls that flew behind her as they danced in the moonlight. In all the secretive years behind them, they only had that one night beneath the stars.

His shoulders shook under the pain of his relentless memories, but his hands never wavered as they told the world of the lost half of his soul. Someday she would come to him, and find this house whose walls could tell her of the grief that flowed from his tortured hands. Someday...

No one knew him apart from his business, and no one could. The little pieces she had left behind after stealing away his heart had gone into his work. Nothing remained beyond that, except to sit and allow his fingers to call her back to his side.

She was miserable in her life, and he knew the slightest push would bring her to him, but he couldn't do it. She had to find the way herself. He simply gave her that soft, sad melody as a beacon to follow. He waited, and knew she would find her way. It was impossible to think otherwise.

His time had flown past in a gray blur, each day exactly as the last. But it would end.

The front door opened, and steel gray eyes opened to look at the illusion of his hands moving over the keys. He smiled slowly, never halting the sounds that swept through the house. She would find her way, and he would be waiting. He heard bare feet on the wood of the entryway, but continued playing.

He only wondered if she would make it all the way to him, before inevitably leaving again.

Reviews

[S Lavovi]

A nice story of longing for what might have been or what could be to come.

[Xavier Lee]

This was short and powerful. An almost tear inducing piece touched my soul. Truly excellent work.

[Marie]

A sad and lovely love story. You know how to show instead of tell and that is the sign of a good writer.

I have read your poetry.

You're a really good prose writer.