Black and White: The Girl At The Piano

It was a black and white landscape. Ebony fingernails, ivory keys. Her hands on the piano were rough and unpolished, the skin pale and faint in the soft afternoon light. Her nails were short and bitten with worry, stained black with cheap varnish. Her wrists were cluttered with cheap plastic bangles and woven friendship bracelets, hiding her vulnerable white arms from the eyes of the world.
Her face was open and unguarded as she scanned the sheets of music before her. Her eyes, darting over the notes in front of her, were dark and bright, her lips bitten into pink rosebuds with concentration. Her cheeks were pale and unadorned; the only makeup she wore, lines of dark kohl around her eyes and heavy mascara darkening her long lashes. As she looked down, they danced across her face like the shadows of two butterflies.
Light from the tall windows filled the spacious room. It fell across the stone floor, spilling out over the delicate sofas arranged around the gilded fireplace. Large vases of flowers were arranged around the room, their scents filling the room with an intoxicating glimpse of summer.
The girl played on, oblivious to the splendour around her. Her hands waltzed across the piano in front of her. Her fingers were quick and delicate, darting across the keys like sunshine on the tiled stone floor around her. Her dark hair fell across her bare shoulders as she leaned forward intently, the black locks spilling over her pale arms like a dark river. A long fringe was swept to one side, shading her earnest eyes from the light spilling over her face.
The music rang out across the room, across the empty spreading tiles, the delicate furnishings, the elegant portraits watching from the walls. The French windows stood open, the gauzy drapes dancing to the breeze, and out in the garden, her mother stood silently listening.
The girl played on, unaware of her audience. Her feet on the pedals were bare and impish. Her white jeans were torn across the knee, the black top stretched across her chest ripped and faded. The sunlight spilling in from the garden painted her cheekbones with streaks of gold. Her face, normally so pale and reserved, was alive and free as she played. Her smile was quick and easy, running over her face as fast as her fingers over the keys. Her eyes were alight and glowing under the dark layers of kohl framing them. She looked like a sprite as she played; a dark, mismatched sprite, out of place in the elegant surroundings around her.
Her mother stood on the patio, one hand cupping a flute of champagne. Her face was troubled as she watched her daughter, one hand nervously playing with the pearls around her neck. The summer breeze stirred the soft curls that framed her face and fell in a gentle tumble over her shoulders. She shivered slightly, and drew the thin cardigan she wore tighter about her body. The contrast between the two of them seemed complete, but as the mother looked up, her eyes were just as dark and earnest as those of the girl she watched.
The music slowly faded, until the girl sat unmoving at the piano, her hands still and lifeless. Silence seemed to settle upon the room as she remained motionless, her eyes fixed upon her frozen fingers. Her smile was gone, her face once more pale and serious. Slowly she looked over her shoulder at the woman watching her from the doorway. Their eyes met, the girl’s resentful and accusing, her mother’s full of sorrow and regret. The world spun on around them as they remained, locked in each others gaze.
Finally the girl pushed back her stool and stood up. With one last glance at the silent woman in the doorway, she turned and walked away.