Perfection

Sunlight pounds into the room through the enormous windows facing the piano. He sits completely engrossed in his keyed vibrations, looking but not seeing. He is dressed in shades of brown, his hair falling around his shoulders, his eyes moist yet unexpressive. His head is lowered with the effort of communion.
Within the room, the music absorbs and reflects in a loud, lilting cascade. Then a woman enters in a brisk dance. She is dressed in blue, with her hair tight above her glistening brow. She whips and spins around the piano, keeping her eyes upon him as he pours himself into and out from the strings and hammers. She matches his tempo, anticipates his changes, mirrors his highs and lows. Something in her manner suggests that she wants him to stop playing, and yet she dances on.
The music seems to form itself to her dance, to energize her and lend a glow to her body. Notes seem to almost carry her along as she washes the floor with her feet, the air rushing from her limbs.
As the sun reaches the ground, she is faltering, her legs are red from exertion and her chest heaves with passionate pain. What color are your eyes, she whispers, what color are your eyes? Her pace is frenzied in step with the music, hands above her, now behind. She spins with her dress flung about her body, spraying sweat upon the keys, upon the windows. She is communicating, asking and telling.
Then she falls with a gasp and in that instant, the music stops, the cover is slammed down over the keys causing a blend of struck keys into a muddy chord and the bench is toppled over. He rises and strides out without a backward glance. From the floor, she raises her voice to him, "Why don't you see me?"
He stops at the entrance. Without turning towards her, he whispers, "Why can't you hear me?" Then he continues on his way as the chaos of sound dies in the piano.