A Weekly Fictional Series – Episode Two – “Screw you, Beckett!”
(Episode One, can be viewed here, for those truly bored!)
Beckett kept looking at her shapely legs – this time, it was not at a piano recital of Bach’s Concerto for 4 Piano’s that he was performing in concert a couple of nights ago – this time, it was in his brother’s eatery – a somewhat deplorable place where he was quite sure that producing gastronomical atrocities were the standard daily operating procedure.
She was demanding an answer to her question, asking him, in essence, if he was the lecherous bastard playing the piano and staring at her legs during a Bach concert she recently attended.
“Why yes,” Beckett answered. “Would you expect less of me not to notice such beauty?”
“It is an affront to me as a woman – that you take an event of playing a glorious Bach piece, and instead of concentrating on producing the high art that Bach certainly would have required of you had you been alive during his day and playing his music…that instead, you take the opportunity to stare at my legs during your entire performance. What an affront to Bach!”
She had a point, Beckett thought to himself. But certainly Bach knew, fathering 20 children, that the deliciousness of the earthly glories afforded to humankind by God, would invariably lead the still unsatisfied soul, seeking more of the the eternal glories that Bach’s music enticed them to consider, leading them to the creator of everything, especially delighted with His, Her, or Its, (take your pick) of the miraculous creation of the touch of soft and glorious flesh.
“And I’m sorry…but since we haven’t been formally introduced, how shall I address you, Beckett asked?”
She took a longer look at him, one that she hadn’t noticed when he was playing Bach’s Concerto for 4 piano’s … and instead focused on the man.
A thin yet fit, whispery sort of man, she thought. A nice hand, with long fingers, obviously needed to play Bach, with a mane of thick black hair, that shiny kind that she liked, all in a mad upheaval defying the odds that it had ever been subjected to a comb.
His light blue eyes were surely a sign of some sort of inglorious duplicities and his taste in clothing would lead one to believe that he was stuck in the 1940’s – sadly, all of this led her to entertain the notion that he was worthy of further consideration.
“My name is Elizabeth…and if you ever refer to me as “Beth”, I’ll kill you”.
Fair enough, he thought.
“Maybe we should sit among deplorable’s of the modern era and take a table,” he said, motioning toward a corner booth where they would be somewhat alone amidst the sea of the lost.
She reluctantly went along with his offering, quite sure that she could afford herself an early exit from his company, offering it up as a necessary means to escape the stupidity of the modern man.
“Why did you choose that particular Bach piece to play at your somewhat bland offering at your recent performance? The other pianist’s were basically comatose, quite like the heathen of the present day, enthralled with a text from a friend telling them of the latest entrails from a lost soul?”
“Truth be told, I was somewhat vexed into it,” Beckett offered. “You see… the producer of the concert, she being a rather staid and contrite soul, never coming to terms with the sensuality of Bach, thought that such a work performed might cast out the demons of carnal knowledge that she’d been seeking her entire life. Sadly, she had taken to the flu the day of my performance and never was subjected to what surely would have been an enlightening journey into the sublime and sensual.”
Beckett waited for the admiration from her baby blue eyes – her black hair, or nearly so, putting the perfect portrait of a genuinely loving face that surely was dreaming of ways to be enthralled with him, that both her and him, had never imagined.
He took a concentrated glance at her hand – one of the first things he noticed of any man, women or other. Had they the fingers that might produce heavenly beauty? Were they of a form that might convey a musical phrase as no other hand could produce? He stole a glance at her legs – noticing the perfectly turned ankle – and then above all, he caught her scent – that of gardenia’s, or at least his version of what gardenia’s should smell of, and at that moment thought…surely – she is an angel, sent to earth to calm his aching soul, to bring solace to a creative being lost among the stench of the modern era. Yes, she could bring meaning, could bring a purpose, could bring peace to his ever-questioning soul.
She looked at him, wondering why in the hell did he dress as William Powell did in the “Thin Man” series from the 1930’s and 1940’s; asked herself why she was sitting with a man who admired her legs more than he admired the glorious music of Bach, and wondered why did he let some trollop turn the pages of Bach’s Concerto for 4 Piano’s, rather than herself – she found herself quite peeved.
Fingers, legs and bright blue eyes aside – she cast a glance his way and offered the only thought she had…
“Screw you, Beckett!”
Next week’s episode…”Why… I never would have imagined”
Bach: Concerto for 4 pianos – BWV 1065 III – Allegro (David Fray, J. Rouvier, E. Christien, A. Vigoureux)
Photo credit: http://www.unsplash.com/@brucemars