Kurt came into the coffee house every night. It was never for the atmosphere. The baristas were rude and the other customers sat around for hours in those strange, thrifty clothes that were purchased with the intent of creating false individuality, yet blended them all together seamlessly. The room was decorated like any old coffee shoppe, with dark walls and scenic mountain portraits all around. He certainly didn't come for the coffee, a bland and scalding brew that forced you to remain in the shoppe until it had cooled to a point of drinkability. By that time you're hungry as well, and you're out ten dollars for a cup of bad brew and a stick of biscotti that could just as easily be purchased in a supermarket.
No, Kurt didn't go for any of that. He went for him. He was there almost every night, sitting at the grand piano dumped unceremoniously in the corner as a piece of decoration. It was dusty and out of tune, yet every note he played floated through the air with grace and ease. He should be a professional, Kurt always thought to himself. Maybe he was a professional; Kurt had never actually spoken to him to find out. You don't just walk up to a beautiful, talented man who play pianos in coffee shoppes for no apparent reason and ask him about his profession.
Tonight, he walked in only a few moments after Kurt. Kurt bought his usual cup of the least offensive coffee and settled himself into a crushed velvet armchair, closing his eyes and waiting for a melodic tune to flood his senses. The pianist wore dark, tight jeans and a red button-up shirt, a color that balanced well with his dark curls and made his olive skin glow in the dim lighting. Kurt could hear his order, just a medium drip with half-and-half to cool it down. His voice was just as endearing as the music, if not more so.
It was so frustrating. Kurt had moved to New York to try new things, to have the audacity that had failed him in Lima, Ohio and be the person he had always dreamed of becoming. The new Kurt Hummel would walk right up to this man, buy him a coffee and ask his name properly.
The man got his drip and set it beside himself on the piano bench. He was playing Moonlight Sonata tonight. Kurt wished for the courage to go and sit beside him on that bench, to let their hands brush the keys together in time, but it never came.