And you can love music

      A, B, F, chord... Thin fingers run over the black and white keys. A quiet, deep sound echoes throughout the hall. She stands nearby, leaning on the side of the piano, deep in thought. The head is thrown back, exposing the white neck, the face is relaxed, the eyes are closed. She taps the ebony wood to the beat of the music. When I pinch the last chord, she flinches and opens eyes, turning her head towards me. Her eyelashes flutter slightly, and I am waiting for her to finally wake up and come out of oblivion. But she is silent. I start a new composition but I don’t even have time to play a couple of notes when she breaks away from the instrument, quickly turns around and swings her palm down on the keys right in front of me. I just sigh, take my hands off the piano and turn to her.       “Don’t do that with the instrument, Yvon,” my voice sounds too loud, unnatural in this empty hall. Yvon stands with pursed lips and frowns, staring at me with an unseeing gaze. Finally she straightens up, removes her hand from the piano and tucks a strand of luscious hair behind her ear.       “Tell me, Al,” Yvon began, ignoring the remark, putting her hands behind her back, “why is everything you play so... gloomy? Too sad..”       I shrugged. Her light, heavenly dress with floral patterns did not match my deathly-pale shirt, blood-red tie, and black, as night, trousers. We were actually comically different. Airy, dreamy Yvonne deserved a special reverent attitude, which was alien to me. I had never been taught how to handle diamonds, and now I felt uncomfortable in the company of people who idolized her.       “Perhaps because I’m quite gloomy myself.”       Yvon smiled and shook her head.       “Play something funny,” she fluttered into the center of the hall and froze in anticipation of the music. I was thinking for a second, remembering everything I had learned, and finally started playing. Yvon spun around, accompanying me with the rustling of the dress and the click of the heels. The setting sun peeked through the stained glass window, got entangled in the crystal chandelier and broke, scattering splashes throughout the hall. And in the center, Ivon danced, collecting fragments of the heavenly body with her hem. Her graceful movements splashed in boundless waves across the parquet floor. I stared at her, my finger slipped and the piano made a nasty, wrong sound - I’m lost. She stops and looks at me offended. I turn away and begin another composition from those usually played at balls. D, G, chord, C, chord... But she doesn't dance anymore. Skirt rustles: she stood behind me, wrapped her arms around my shoulders and leaned in very close. Her wheaten curls tickle my cheek, and I feel a ragged breath on my neck.       “No,” Yvonne whispers, “no need to play anymore.”       I obey and my hands freeze in a silent question.       “You can't do it the way you should. It comes across as insensitive. Sad melodies come out better for you. Melodious, beautiful,” she explains. I shrug.       “As you wish.”       We are silent. I improvise on the piano, choosing random chords. It turns out dramatic, rainy in autumn. It’s only the end of May, but it’s as if an October cloud hangs in the room.       “Invite me,” Yvon asks, releasing my shoulders. I turn around and look at her: Yvon is looking at me with blue eyes, in which something adult has now slipped through, completely unsuitable for her, “to dance, I mean. I want to dance with you.”       “And the music?”       “To hell with the music.”       I sigh, put on the gloves lying next to me on the music stand, stand up, and extend my hand to Yvon.       “Would you like to dance with me?” I say sedately, bowing slightly.       “Of course” Yvon bows slightly in response and places her small palm in mine. We go out to the middle of the hall. Yvon counts and we waltz. I hold her thin waist, and it seems to me that one awkward movement and she will break in my hands. Yvonne smiles sadly.       “Why are you so cold?” she asks, looking into my eyes. I sigh and look away, searching for words. Yvon stops, letting go of my hand.       “You and I have already discussed this.”       “You don't love me, do you, Alastair?” she asks quietly, although we both know everything perfectly well.       “Whether I love you or not, it doesn’t matter. We're engaged and that's a fact.”       She impulsively stands on her toes, grabs me by the neck, presses her whole body and our faces are a millimeter from each other. She smiles slyly, reminding me of a fox.       “You don’t know how to lie at all. You always so direct,” Yvon laughs and tucks a strand of my dark brown hair behind my ear with one hand, “but you know, I love that about you. And what I also love about you is that you don’t idealize me or flatter me. Funny, right? I literally love you because you don't love me. Even if you don't love me, I will love you for both of us. And you can love music.”       I smile slightly in response. Her childishness disappeared: not a trace remained of the capricious child. I saw a woman in front of me. Elegant, charming, ambitious. This beautiful, like a nymph, woman will do anything for her goals. She is smart enough not to show her intelligence. A merciless and frightening fox.       “You belong only to me, Alastair. Remember this,” there is a hint of steel in her velvet voice that makes me shudder and tremble. She didn’t say it, bur I can read it on her face - “If you forget, I will kill you.”       “My lady,” I get down on one knee, take her hand and weightlessly kiss the back of her hand. Yvonne smiles indulgently and strokes my hair with her free hand, “I will always be yours.”