Whether I get a temp assistant or not, it’s only for two months. Should I just rent a Doberman to keep people away? But then there are calls, emails and deliveries and things. I can’t deal with all of it myself. No single human can deal with it, because the mailmen drop off a mountain of stuff every day. If I weren’t busy trying to figure out my next acting role, I might consider letting it just sit, but…
There’s no way around it. I need somebody.
I take a deep breath and stretch my neck to release the tension at the base of my skull. There are event stages set up along the concourse. A soft piano melody comes from one to my left as I stride by. There’s a black baby grand on it, and a young woman is playing. She isn’t bad. Actually, she sounds pretty good, in my amateur opinion. I started taking piano lessons when I was ten, but gave up after a couple of years. My fingers are too clumsy for anything other than moderately paced scales, and I didn’t want to bother if I couldn’t play Schubert’s Impromptu Opus 90, Number 2 with an acceptable degree of proficiency.
My teacher complained that I was fixated on Schubert. But then, she didn’t know what that piece meant to me, and didn’t want to understand when I tried to explain it to her.
The piece the woman is playing is mellow and lovely. Soothing, even, and the mild headache that’s been aggravating me starts to dissipate. But I maintain my pace. I want to hit the lounge, grab a shower and some snacks before it’s time to board.
But I slow and then stop when she begins the Impromptu.
I heard the piece for the first time when I was ten. A girl was playing it on a white Steinway baby grand. Listening to her was like holding a mug of hot chocolate on a freezing, snowy day. It was a tense time in my life, and a warm sweetness spread through me, all the way to my heart, giving me not only comfort but a sense of wellbeing, that everything would be fine.
I own every recording of this piece out there. And I listen to them all the time. But none
recapture the feeling I had when I heard it that first time. I’ve never gotten that sense of comfort again.
But now… This pianist is giving me exactly that. And something more. A frisson of electricity that brings all my nerve endings to attention.
I turn and study her more carefully. She seems to be in her early to mid-twenties. Straight auburn hair frames her small face just so. Her lashes are lowered, her full mouth set in a straight line. She keeps her shoulders straight, her slender arms and long fingers relaxed and fluid as they move. The Impromptu ends all too soon. But then, played at the correct tempo, it’s not even five minutes long.
She launches into another piece, this one tumultuous and rapid. Her hands are a blur as they fly over the keys like a hummingbird’s wings. I wonder how long she practiced to master the instrument like that, then decide probably too damn much time, much more than I’m capable of.
I want her to go back to Schubert. But I wait. There’s a command to her performance that says she won’t appreciate an interruption.
Thankfully, the new piece isn’t long. She pauses for a moment and exhales softly. I step forward.
“Are you a concert pianist?” I ask. “If so, could you tell me your name so I can buy some of your recordings?”
She lifts her head and turns toward me. Her steady dark brown gaze hits me, lances me to the spot. For a moment, I can’t move or breathe. It’s like somebody’s sending an electric shock through my system to restart my heart. But as soon as the shock’s gone, my whole body feels tight, my blood hot and flowing rapidly through my veins. All my senses seem sharper, as though they've just awakened.
I breathe in a little bit through my mouth. It feels like I can taste the air, the cool, industrial flavor of a large international airport mixed with something a little more intimate. Her scent. Sweet and citrusy, with a hint of flowers.
If I were the romantic type, I might think I was in a Hollywood freeze frame where a guy falls in love at first sight. Thankfully, my head’s screwed on tighter than that.
Instead of answering, the woman looks at me oddly. Maybe she could tell I was having a moment.
Or maybe she can tell I’m starting to get hard, like some teenager. Damn it. A man shouldn’t be having a libido surge when he’s been sitting on a damned tarmac, had his flight delayed and is tired and jet-lagged.
Or maybe that’s why my penis is out of control. Maybe if I were better rested…?
“Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up or anything.” I shift a little to better hide my unmanageable reaction to her nearness.
Then it hits me: maybe she doesn’t speak English. Shit. I don’t speak Korean. Actually, she might not even be Korean. She could be any Asian connecting through to somewhere. Incheon is one of the biggest hubs in the world.
“I don’t play concerts,” she finally says. “I’m not a professional.”
Oh, good. So we can communicate. My dick keeps saying we should hook up, but there isn’t enough time. Transiting, Declan, transiting. Time to go home soon.
The fact that she doesn’t have any recordings is disappointing. It’s taken over two decades to find somebody who can re-create my unforgettable childhood comfort. Her being hot is another point, but that’s probably just due to me being exhausted. Not as much control as usual.
Should I offer her a job as my personal pianist?
Maybe not. Her Georges Hobeika dress alone is worth thousands of dollars. I know because Ella whined endlessly to get me to buy one for her—and failed. A woman who can afford an outfit like that doesn’t need a job.
So I go for the second best option. “If you take requests, would you mind playing that Schubert again?”
Her eyebrows go up. “Why that piece?”