It was magnificently captivating. The way his fingers moved over the keys with perfect precision. The perfectly spaced notes and added articulation. It was magical to watch him play. Even though we were just in his basement, his music transported me to a world of joy, sorrow, anger, every possible emotion you could think of. They all come together in a strange yet beautiful way. Did Tchaikovsky intend for this piece to be played with such finesse? When he set the clarinet in his lap I just stared in wonder.
"You amaze me every time. You outshine even yourself." I say.
"Thank you." He smiles. He starts to take apart the instrument. I come up behind him and lay my head on his shoulder, breathing in the smell of his skin. The smell that gets me every time.
"I hope you heard." He says.
"Heard what exactly?"
"That I was playing for you."
He turns around and kisses me. His arms wrap around my neck. His lips graze mine. Everyday I wonder how he could love me. And everyday he assures me of the reasons. Through words, but mostly through his actions.
"Don't worry," I whisper in his ear. "I heard."
He looks up to my eyes and I melt into his. I melt at every touch I receive. And he does the same.
