There is a grand piano at
the train station. It is black and imposing and ready to be played by
anyone – which mostly means ready to be played by any
three-year-old with more enthusiasm than sense of musicality.
It was three O’clock
when a particularly sadistic mother with a particularly rambunctious
son started to approach the piano. The mother, a white middle-class
woman stopped halfway as a tall dark young man approached.
The young man was in his
early twenties. His body swayed from side to side with the natural
grace of someone who spends a great amount of time listening to rap
music. He gave the mother a short bow, a half-smile and a friendly
wink. The mother's arms wrapped protectively over her child and gave
a step back. The piano stood free.
The man sat slowly on the
black, slick piano stool. His white sneakers squeaked on the
station's floor. He wore black, baggy pants and a puffy winter jacket
which had tiger prints on it and matched his baseball cap. He wore
his baseball cap backwards. Around his neck hanged a set of
red-colored Beats by Dr. Dre. His long hair was slick with a month's
worth styling gel, all combed back. It shined almost as much as the
fake diamond earring in his right ear. His posture behind the piano
was impeccable. A confident, wild smile touched his thin lips as he
brought his hands down to caress the keys.
In the millisecond it took
for him to strike the first note, the world changed. His coat, his
dirty pants, even the strong smell of patchouli that reeked from his
neck didn't matter anymore. There was only him, his long fingers and
the sound of Chopin's Etude Op. 25 No. 11.
The melody intensified in
a mad, descending cascade, and he brought his head up. A triumphant
look graced his slightly slanted eyes and then wrinkled to match his
perfect, beautiful, wild smile. Daring the world to judge him by his
looks.
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