piano at breakfast

A friend just mentioned how she is seeing a man who plays the piano.

 It reminded me.

The lighting, is pale yellow, falling from the window on to a table set with a white table cloth. A very long table. Breakfast scents and treasures lay strewn across it , already consumed , still irresistible.


My hand keeps reaching out.

The piano sounds.
He started to play.
Had no idea he played the piano.

Of course we where alone, every one else had left, I had awoken up late.

I suppose he had waited for me, maybe?
He was playing, for me may be?
 No one else was there but the Benjamina plants,  long way away, across the deep contrasting shadows of the enormous room, on the other side of the dusty carpets and sofas , so far away, but I think never the less, listening. Just as I was listening, startled by the music. Absorbed fully. Reaching out , spreading the jam slowly, responding to the music, answering what ever he was asking with the piano, spreading the jam so slow as  to make the music last.

 Particles of dust sparkled in the light, spinning.

It was one of the most beautiful breakfasts.