His fingers moved across the plastic keyboard, his touch was magic in the movements... white to black, black to white, motion to melody, soft and soothing ... sad and sensual. Steinway in perfect pitch, played from the heart.
I watched his hands, his body moves, his stony face at passions edge ... he pulled me in.
There were no other sounds, not even as the old dog groaned and shifted at his feet. The room was warm, the man ... transfixed. His music, some kind of telepathic poetry ... without the need of words.
And I, ... in love... with every music man that ever moved me to this point.