I listen, periodically aware that I’m holding my breath. I can’t stand for even the microfriction of inhaling and exhaling to obscure the sound. Sudden crescendos and gentle arpeggios sweep me along with bobbing triplets punctuated by abrupt rests, the space between the notes as important as the notes themselves. My heart beats in time with the shifting cadence, from adagio to andante to allegro. Codas come and go, weaving motifs into melodies, unfolding and refolding one measure at a time until the air is crowded with invisible threads that wrap themselves around and hold me close.
Eventually, the story comes to an end—something about spreadsheets and margins and deliverables—and he looks at me expectantly.
“Well? What do you think?” he asks. A brief reprise.
I blink and shake my head as if I hadn’t been in rapt attention the entire time he was speaking. “Oh, I’m sorry, honey. I wasn’t listening. Can you tell me again?”
This story is part of No Novel November, a daily microfiction challenge. If you'd like to know more and/or join in, click here.