I met you in the winter on my third day of Vivaldi’s Summer. I tend to find ways in my mind to disrupt ordinary patterns; like the dreary push that a cold New York City day in January might bestow upon a soul. Summer helped that. Vivaldi usually solves most of my problems.
I was writing when we met. I told you I was on my second drink that day, when it was really my fifth. You sat next to me at the bar and asked what I was listening to. People aren’t abrupt like that anymore. They don’t just sit next to you in public places and ask what your headphones are playing. I actually found your query a quite personal question.
Your boldness made me blush.
“Do you play the violin?”
You took sheet music out of your bag and told me about how you play piano. I didn’t tell you that I used to take lessons, or how Liebestraum has been more consistent in my life than any lover ever attempted.
Such frivolous detail hardly seemed significant.
So like I was saying, these violins had been waking me up during the night for days. Days on top of the weeks and years I dreamt of you.
We didn’t talk about this the day we met.
To the picture of a starry sky. An aurora borealis photo. Maybe a moon sculpture, of sorts.
And while strings moaned in pitches and places I don’t know how to reach, we read piano music and talked about Johann Nepomuk Hummel. Piano Sonata No. 4 in C major, movement 1.
You rolled cigarettes with a precision that made me feel foreignly safe. Because back then I wasn’t safe and you weren’t precise, but we convinced enough people otherwise to briefly build a life.
I walked on air around you and your thoughts became alive inside of my heart. We started around that place. We ended somewhere entirely different.