Ludwig Van

Music sounds different under candlelight, I think.

Do you know the crisp sound of manuscript pages being turned? And turned to fire. Fire flashing under fingertips. Fingers sliding along the cello strings. Strung out over a piano. The velocities and dexterities all combining. Even silence has a voice now.

Carla, the palmreader, also happened to be a gifted pianist. I used to drop by her house/storefront for a few hours each week, depending on my schedule, obligations, and love-life. There's something about having a neon sign on your front porch that changes your outlook on life. Carla claimed that she was channeling the ghost of Ludwig Van Beethoven. So I would lug my old cello out with me and we'd practice a sonata movement or two. She was meticulous, even if sometimes frivolous. I swear to you that I've never heard more impassioned cadenzas. Together, we would walk adagio through the gardens of Beethoven. I finally catch my breath. I am delighted. Carla heard something more in the music, I could see it in her eyes. She listened for something distant. A message? A flood perhaps?

Afterwards, Carla would take my hands in hers and hold them until they were warm and rosy. Then she took some sweet oils, some rose or peppermint essence, and began to trace the lines of my palm. She looked so serious that sometimes I became worried. Her fingernails were psychic-trowels digging secrets from my palm. How much wasn't she telling me? How much did she know? My career line is still floundering. Who chooses to be a flea-market moghul? Seems there's "a mysterious lover waiting in the near future." What's new? Love's labour is always lost on me.