Sofia's Concerto in Melancholy Minor

Sofia sits in her rocking chair by her dusty pane and listens as her thoughts scream at her and she nods in agreement and mumbles incoherent commentary.
Sofia reaches out and touches her finger tips, suddenly tapping lightly on the pane staring at dust particles – skin’s history – fall to the wooden ledge. Sofia nods, seemingly satisfied
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
she strums in rhythmic patterns. She is somewhere in her brain, lost in the plains of her mind, caught somewhere between nerve leaps and electrical currents, and visual compliance and temporal existence.
Sofia hears the soft soothing of the violin with the low vibration of a Bb clarinet playing in a soft, tonal accompaniment of the 1st octave below middle C. Harmonies, Sofia sways. The Bass clarinet appears, sharing octaves with a deep, full tidal wave that encompasses the piece and the players.
Finger strums slow and she begins to follow the graceful flow of the black lines, dashes, circles and calligraphic writings.
Tap
Tap tap
Tap tap tap
Tap
Tap
Tap
Tap Tap
Tap Tap
Sofia sees the second chairs watch her, waiting for the nod, the acknowledgement of their part. Swells and high tides, low tides and drowning envelop the players. Sofia breathes and feels music escape, art please her. Energies are thrown back and forth between fingers and strings, keys and fingers. Her head nods,
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap
Tap
Tap
second chairs join her and now they tug-of-war, hide-and-seek, red-light, green-light the piece, taking turns at letting each player toss a melody and feel up a vibrato, softly caressing a decrescendo, and climaxing the fermata, sustaining the pleasures of each. Players look at, eyes meet, Sofia’s. Release and sigh in sweet, satisfied resolve.
Soft fall, whisper drop of hand as Sofia’s fingers leave the window pane, the keys of her instrument, the past of her livelihood. Eyes wander, left, right, still, back to center – memory lapse, total recall of falsities.

Brenan once loved Sofia. Brenan stares at a once alive woman and a soft glaze slides across his eyes, remembrance and hatred, guilt and sadness swallowing him, becoming his whole body.
Brenan stares in wonderment at his lover, lost at sea, clashing realities at the doorway. Dare he step in? Dare he exist?
Brenan watches as Sofia rocks, watches as she nods, strums, taps, and comments on her reality. Hesitatingly, steps in.
Brenan stares at Sofia on the stage, the way her dress seems to flow onto the floor, the cascades of silk, the twinkle of her polished keys; Sofia’s nod, soft, empowering. From below, Brenan looks up. Sofia will not see him past the lights. Brenan can judge and love without her knowledge. Brenan sees and lies to himself about the feelings running through his thoughts. Sofia will not know. Ever. Eyes avert to the Bass clarinetist. Beauty radiates from her; the soft rise of chest and exhale of the music that escapes her very center.
Eyes meet, instruments drop softly into laps, and Sofia leads into another piece, another concerto, another solo, another duet, and ultimately, another ensemble. Gracefulness escapes the players, the instrumentalists. The lives of women escape their fingers, dig into keys, and slide across strings, up the bow, and out the bells; women who follow Sofia.

Fingers grasping at the crinkled, sweat-soaked sheets. Whispers of covers sliding underneath and all around the bodies. Soft scratching of fabric against skin as love is transferred from being to being, body to body. Quickly the head is thrown back, the neck is strained, each vein, each curve and bend is exposed; over exposed. Eyes shut so tight, lids are crinkled. White dots appear at the corners of the lips as the mouth is stretched tightly in silent pleasure. Quick part of lips to smile, breathing quickened. Head whips from side to side, hair is long, messy, sweaty, frizzy from sheet static, sex crazed. And it starts. That feeling. From below there is intense tingling, as if being tickled from the inside out, nerves awakening and screaming. Moving up into the belly button and muscle twitch from inside, between legs, followed by many more muscle twitches and pulses. Pan to face and watch it become suddenly relaxed, pleasure known only to the beholder and only imagined to the performer, the entertainer. Chest rising and falling, sharp intakes with each muscle twitch, muscle pull, muscle loosen. Grasping fingers, twisting wrists, tight arms, rigid body, quick, short breathing, mouth wide open, eyes clasped shut, full lips forming not a smile but an “O” and brows are furrowing and head whipping back and forth as hair is heard scraping across the sheets that no longer whisper but scream. Sheets screaming for them and for the mouth that cannot scream because the neck throws back and it strains and the lungs tighten and the stomach not moving and the legs they shake and the muscles twitch and quiver and then it escapes, soft and instantly loud and over and over sung and legs keep shaking and the stomach, it quivers and the brow stays furrowed and the head it bends down towards the stomach and the eyes they open – wide and staring at this moment of incredible pleasure and the neck it throws the head back and lets the throat scream and moan and let out all sound until satisfied. The moans turn into groans which turn into grunts which turn into low growls and outbursts of desire as hips rock and thrust. The covers are floating to the ground and unnoticed. The whispers that became screams are now squeaks of metal on wood and accompanied by momentary spasms of words out of throats that are strained. Foreheads are beaded in sweat and chests are rising, falling, pausing, and rising again. Intakes and exhales –heard sharply within the sanctuary of the room. Moans and passions fly around the room, knocking into lampshades and bouncing off the windows, knocking against the closet doors and skidding across the hardwood floors. Stomach tightens, whites around the mouth appear and give way to open mouth and smiling lips as screams escape and pillows are thrown with a soft thump upon the floors. Sensitive nerves are exposed and touched and teased. Body becomes rigid and shakes, falling just as quickly as it rose into complete and utter satisfied exhaustion.
Brenan remembers the quickness of breath, the way she brought music into every part of their life together. Every movement of hers sang out and every touch like striking a harmonious chord. Sex with her was like listening to Cello Suite No. 1. The energy that emerged between their two bodies – Surpassing love making, it became a creation of energy, a making of another universal, orgasmic, musical, and earthly…something. It, whatever “it” was, was beyond words, beyond Brenan’s comprehension.

Sofia looks out the window, feeling the sun warm her lap and feels the heat of the stage lights, the intense glow that causes her brow to furrow and begins a tiny ache just above her right brow. Sofia’s eyes raise, meet the violinist’s and sparkle with excitement. Their melodious duet that excites the audience and fills the auditorium with fiery energy is felt throughout the fingers that key and the arm that bows, the necks that bow, and the eyes that frantically scan. Each body sway is calculated simultaneously and subconsciously. Sofia follows the staff, the steady paces, and remembers what she saw.
Crescendo to A major, soft touch of fingers to arm, eyes meeting, slight turn of lips, rush of pink cheeks; ritardando of realization; fermata of steady gazes; subito to whisper intake of breath; key change to minor, fermata of loathing. Sofia decrescendos into quiet harmony with the bass clarinet, feeling the slow sadness closing in on her.
The warmth of the sun makes her hands too hot, her palms too clammy, and her brow ache. Eyes avert left, away from dusty panes, and the dark paneling of the wood floors beneath her flowing dress that covers the ground around her chair stare back at her. The heat on her hands, the sweat beads beginning on her forehead. Ovation. Stand. Bow. Walking slowly off the stage, down the steps, touch of fingers on her shoulder, Sofia meets Brenan’s eyes.

Brenan stares at her as she raises her gaze to his. Heart stammers, his lips move in confusion as he attempts to speak to her. Sofia looks into his eyes as she slips underneath his fingers, feeling their soft, calloused pads slide across her shoulder. Suddenly, recognition. Sofia furrows brow and stares at Brenan, accusing him of all she knows to be true. Brenan removes his hand from Sofia’s shoulder and for a slight moment, wonders if Sofia knew. Guilt overtakes him and Brenan looks away, remembering those days in between the covers, but it is not Sofia’s face that he sees under the covers with him.

Sofia walks away and stares into the dusty panes once again. Her reflection shows her face on that night, her sorrow. An unbridled pain that seems to radiate from her very soul tears her heart apart. She lifts her hand into the air, staring out the window and waves a taxi. Sofia opens the cab’s door and climbs into a confined space smelling of thousands of perfumes and an undertone of body odor. Realizing she left her purse back at the hall, she tells the cabbie to turn around. As she runs up the stairs, Sofia runs into Charlotte. Words exchanged but not quite heard. Pleasantries turned to accusations. A shove of the hand, a stumble back, accusations and insults fly around them, a climax of anger and physical exclamation. Sofia stumbles backward and slips. Charlotte screams her name and reaches out in uncontrolled, involuntary muscle movement. The hands that touched Brenan, that betrayed Sofia, that made music with Sofia, reach out to save her.
Falling, she realizes there is nothing she can do but let go, accept that she is falling, that she will end up at the bottom. Charlotte covers her mouth and her eyes, wide with fear, watch as Sofia’s head hits a stair and Sofia somersaults her way down the steps, landing in a contortion of silk and twisted limbs. Brenan runs to the landing, sees Charlotte, sees Sofia, and runs down. Eyes unopened, limp, hardly breathing.

Brenan paces the hallway of the hospital. Knowledge of the damage has put him in a sense of panic. Guilt, happiness, hope, love, hatred, and loathing fill him. He had an affair, he hurt Sofia, but perhaps now he will be able to be with Charlotte, perhaps now he will be rid of Sofia and he doesn’t have to tell her. But how does he leave a woman who radiates beauty like her? How does he look at her, helpless, and walk away? He hates Sofia for making him feel this way. Paces stop. How could he hate her? What has she done? Karma has taken this out on her as a punishment for him. Hesitated resolve. Choice made. He must stay. Brenan breathes a sigh of guilted relief.

Sofia moves her hand to her head, feeling the loose braid that was put there, but does not remember by whom. She runs her fingers along her right temple. Fingers glide across a scar, but they do not recognize the skin, smooth now, once rough. Fingers fall with soft whisper back into the lap, the chair continues to rock, and Sofia stares out the dusty pane, into the sun, past her reflection, and into the audience of the concert hall. Eyes on her, she meets those of the violinist’s and with a slight nod, Sofia’s fingers lift to the pane, keying her solo, creating music, waiting for her duet to start and the bass clarinetist to join with the second chairs
Tap
Tap Tap Tap
Tap Tap
subito pianissimo.