One Shots

Black and White Teeth

Gentle notes from the piano flow through me as my fingers press on the keys. Hammers inside the grand instrument tap against the many strings that vibrate and echo to create a melody for the 9 muses who sit on Mount Olympus. My eyes are closed. I know the tune I play by heart. My fingers dance across the black and white keys. I don't stop; I don't stop for the gasps I hear around me or for the tense muscles in my neck that beg me to relax or for the tight pain from my cramping fingers. No–nothing can stop me from finishing this masterpiece that I have spent many months practicing and rehearsing in an empty room. I have given up too much already to stop this performance.

I can't hear the notes I play. All the sounds in the world are replaced by the beating of my heart that goes up, up, up–through my chest and skull and eardrums–and back down–through my forearms and palms and fingertips–until it is all I hear and all I am. It's unnerving to lose all of the noise in the world at once. Is my audience judging me? Am I playing the right notes? Am I playing at all?

My eyes flicker open. My fingers ache, but they continue their march over the vast plane of keys, their steps becoming one with the hammers and strings in the instrument in a harmony I have never been able to make before. The song is close to the end. Just one more jump into the higher notes, just one more shift of the pedals under my feet, just one more combination of keys to press before my fingers–now numb from the exhaustion of playing non-stop for this 13-minute piece–finally still. The final note echoes more than any other over the amphitheater's silence. The yellow glow illuminating me is all I have. I let go of the song. The crowd is silent, waiting for my next move.

Slowly, methodically, almost as if I did not want to–and I do not want to–I slide to the end of the piano bench and stand. On the vast stage with velvet curtains and polished wood and a team of staff waiting on either side of backstage, I am nothing. I am but a small speck of dust on such a large stage. My ears ring in the silence. My breath is in my throat and it won't leave. My eyes flicker across the audience, finally landing on a staff member who mimics bowing for my performance. Oh, that's right. I am supposed to bow.

I bow, clumsily copying the staff member who was kind enough to remind me. The audience exploded with applause. Clapping, cheering, whooping–I hear it all. I rise from my bow with a smile.

The staff member who showed me to bow beckon me backstage and I follow their summons. My moment in the spotlight is over.