Keys, black and white, so many to choose from, so many right or wrong or perfect, some standing alone or some running in harmonious twos, threes. He stared, hesitant, nervous to touch but desperate to find out which combination was the one. There was a perfect combination, or so the stories went, and he had to find it.
The right set of keys would open the door to her heart, but he had to find them. It was going to take a lot of work. He unbuttoned his cuffs, rolled up his sleeves, and set to work, picking keys, scribbling their names down on a piece of paper whenever he struck upon a combination that would work.
Even if this isn't the food of love, he thought, I'm going to be playing on.
2 comments:
I really like the piano montage.
You have such a flair for descriptions.
Thanks! I don't usually wax poetic, because too much description can seriously turn into purple prose, but this exercise definitely allows for a little letting loose.
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