The Virtuoso :: Apr 28, 05:46 PM
His hands did not sweat under his white gloves. His suit was pressed and neat. His shoes shone with new polish. He strode gracefully up to the piano and removed his gloves, letting his fingers familiarize with the cool, smooth texture of the keys.
Then he began to play. He was brilliant for about 8 measures. His pinky went first: it slipped and pressed the wrong key. Then his left hand hammered the wrong set of notes. Soon the smooth melody became unrecognizable to the audience, and they talked amongst themselves. Soon afterwards, the pianist himself could not remember what he was playing, and he gave up altogether.
Some of the audience jeered at him. A few got up and left. Most sat about and talked in hushed whispers, throwing him glances at odd intervals.
The room darkened as the pianist’s cool exterior deteriorated into a cold sweat, and he felt himself sinking into the ground. Stumbling about, he fell off the stage and landed on all fours, panting.
The ground opened beneath him and he fell into a dark pit. Descending, he could still see the audience staring down at him, their mouths gossipping. their eyes unforgiving.
Too bad he couldn’t read lips.
The man’s body hit rock bottom, and he woke up.
He was still in bed when it came time for his performance.
He hadn’t rehearsed for months.
Section: Fiction | Category: Short Story
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