Between her notes.

Anxiously, I sit against the
wall of a 90-year-old theatre
waiting for intermission
to finish, so I can hear a
French woman not much
older than I play
Rachmaninov's second concerto.
A woman in high waist pants
and a bedazzled blouse enters,
sitting delicately in front of a
Steinway and Sons, blonde hair
cascading from her shoulders.
She calculates each measure,
legs at an angle, hands of virtuosity.
I see her head tilt back as everyone
around me holds their breath.
I can taste the tension -
interpretations of darkness and
light.

She opens her legs further,
leaning forward on the bench;
the orchestra crescendos
with each note she demands.
Her hands pound the keys
as she moves her hips
with the force of a storm -
I gasp softly
and bite my ruby lips,
mesmerized by
the force of her sound.

Applause shakes the seats.
Music still makes love in my ear,
intimately whispering to
other parts of my body.

I stand up, placing a hand
over my pearls,
as she coyly smiles at the crowd
then exits stage left.

I leave feeling flustered
while gentleman wave me
ahead and I parade down
West Jefferson in a trance,
waiting til I am home
before I relive her
tender passion.