Disclaimer: Odds are you've read hundreds of these suckers already. Imagine
there's one here as well.
A Fleeting Glimpse
"Good evening ma'am. If you'd be so kind as to follow me."
The woman gives a slight nod as the maitre'd greets her, and follows him to the corner table she has reserved. The heels of her shoes click against the polished oak floor as she follows him across the large, tastefully decorated room. Many would impressed by the quality of the furnishings, or would notice a deliciously tantalising scent wafting from the kitchen. Even the more jaded patrons are invariably impressed by the panoramic views of the city at night, which are visible from the huge curving windows. The woman barely notices. She has other reasons for being here. As the maitre'd pulls out a chair for her at a corner table set for one, she notes with approval that the glow from the discreet lighting is fairly dim by the time it reaches this table. The shadows will obscure her features nicely.
She gives the menu a cursory glance and makes an indifferent enquiry of the chef's talents before making a disinterested choice. The minimal attention she gives her meal when it arrives might suggest to an observer that it bordered on the inedible, rather than being quite exquisite in both quality and preparation. Her beauty, in combination with her obvious lack of a dining partner, attracts the attention of several men at nearby tables over the course of the evening. There is even one bold enough to brave her aloof air, but when he speaks to her, she makes a quiet response that sends him away with alacrity, his eyes wide and his face pale.
Then the lights dim save for those near a low stage set up in the opposite corner of the room from where the woman sits, and a member of the staff steps forward to announce that the post dinner entertainment will soon begin. The woman's head snaps sharply around at this announcement, her attention focusing subtly but unwaveringly on the stage. A young man steps up into the lit area, carrying the instrument with which he has built a reputation as a highly talented young musician. Moving with hesitant grace, he sets up his music and removes his cello from its case. There is a low murmur of appreciation as some of the more knowledgeable observers recognise the young man. Their respect for his ability is indicated by the speed with which they hush when he gently gestures for silence.
His brilliance lies in the fact that rather than simply playing the music as an ends in itself, he uses it as a conduit by which he expresses what he feels. It is little wonder then that his work is so powerful, for only the most callous soul would deny that this man's life has left him with untold reserves of emotion on which to draw. He plays with a passionate anguish, imbuing his music with sense of sorrow that pours forth from the cello's strings and reaches out into the hearts of his audience. And beyond all the sorrow in his music, he plays a single, solitary strand of hope. One listener, sitting alone at her corner table, is especially struck by the young man's poignant melody. She alone, of all those present, is the only one paying equal attention to the musician as she is to his music. So it is that only she notices the single salty liquid orb that creeps out from under a closed eyelid to roll slowly down his cheek.
She daren't hope that it is in memory of her.
This is not the first time she has watched and listened from the shadows. At first his performances were held in seedy clubs and dingy bars as he struggled to pay his way through college. Later, as he slowly rose through the ranks of his profession, she has appreciated his music in venues of increasing quality. She often despises herself for her obsession, but more often for her inability to move beyond the role of observer. But there are too many regrets, too much on both sides unforgiven or left unsaid. The memories form a mountain she may never be able to scale.
As the performance ends, she stands abruptly. Her throat too choked to speak she leaves payment on the table before moving rapidly toward the door with a stiff gait. Just as she is stepping out, something in her manner draws the cellist's attention, tweaking some long ago memory that compels him to look up. Shinji raises his head just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a woman he is sure he recognises before she vanishes into the night.
Author's Notes
I'm reposting this little trilogy of oneshots (it finally is a trilogy) as one story now that the last instalment is finally written. Look for 'Wishful Thinking' and 'Happy Endings Are Allowed' to appear as the second and third chapters shortly.
A Fleeting Glimpse
"Good evening ma'am. If you'd be so kind as to follow me."
The woman gives a slight nod as the maitre'd greets her, and follows him to the corner table she has reserved. The heels of her shoes click against the polished oak floor as she follows him across the large, tastefully decorated room. Many would impressed by the quality of the furnishings, or would notice a deliciously tantalising scent wafting from the kitchen. Even the more jaded patrons are invariably impressed by the panoramic views of the city at night, which are visible from the huge curving windows. The woman barely notices. She has other reasons for being here. As the maitre'd pulls out a chair for her at a corner table set for one, she notes with approval that the glow from the discreet lighting is fairly dim by the time it reaches this table. The shadows will obscure her features nicely.
She gives the menu a cursory glance and makes an indifferent enquiry of the chef's talents before making a disinterested choice. The minimal attention she gives her meal when it arrives might suggest to an observer that it bordered on the inedible, rather than being quite exquisite in both quality and preparation. Her beauty, in combination with her obvious lack of a dining partner, attracts the attention of several men at nearby tables over the course of the evening. There is even one bold enough to brave her aloof air, but when he speaks to her, she makes a quiet response that sends him away with alacrity, his eyes wide and his face pale.
Then the lights dim save for those near a low stage set up in the opposite corner of the room from where the woman sits, and a member of the staff steps forward to announce that the post dinner entertainment will soon begin. The woman's head snaps sharply around at this announcement, her attention focusing subtly but unwaveringly on the stage. A young man steps up into the lit area, carrying the instrument with which he has built a reputation as a highly talented young musician. Moving with hesitant grace, he sets up his music and removes his cello from its case. There is a low murmur of appreciation as some of the more knowledgeable observers recognise the young man. Their respect for his ability is indicated by the speed with which they hush when he gently gestures for silence.
His brilliance lies in the fact that rather than simply playing the music as an ends in itself, he uses it as a conduit by which he expresses what he feels. It is little wonder then that his work is so powerful, for only the most callous soul would deny that this man's life has left him with untold reserves of emotion on which to draw. He plays with a passionate anguish, imbuing his music with sense of sorrow that pours forth from the cello's strings and reaches out into the hearts of his audience. And beyond all the sorrow in his music, he plays a single, solitary strand of hope. One listener, sitting alone at her corner table, is especially struck by the young man's poignant melody. She alone, of all those present, is the only one paying equal attention to the musician as she is to his music. So it is that only she notices the single salty liquid orb that creeps out from under a closed eyelid to roll slowly down his cheek.
She daren't hope that it is in memory of her.
This is not the first time she has watched and listened from the shadows. At first his performances were held in seedy clubs and dingy bars as he struggled to pay his way through college. Later, as he slowly rose through the ranks of his profession, she has appreciated his music in venues of increasing quality. She often despises herself for her obsession, but more often for her inability to move beyond the role of observer. But there are too many regrets, too much on both sides unforgiven or left unsaid. The memories form a mountain she may never be able to scale.
As the performance ends, she stands abruptly. Her throat too choked to speak she leaves payment on the table before moving rapidly toward the door with a stiff gait. Just as she is stepping out, something in her manner draws the cellist's attention, tweaking some long ago memory that compels him to look up. Shinji raises his head just in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of a woman he is sure he recognises before she vanishes into the night.
Author's Notes
I'm reposting this little trilogy of oneshots (it finally is a trilogy) as one story now that the last instalment is finally written. Look for 'Wishful Thinking' and 'Happy Endings Are Allowed' to appear as the second and third chapters shortly.