Tourist

I once called her my French fiancée,
even when I knew better.

“The student is wed to an instrument, and dreams of that first consummation in every hall on every stage.” She sat down at the baby grand, and played an improvised tune. “That first knowledge shall not be undone, not til he is reborn. A pianist is a suffering whore, and over the course of travels and travails returns to that long forgotten saintly virginity.”

“Is that how you think of yourself?” I laughed. “A harlot?”

“I’m different,” she said, and looked into the belly of the wooden wellspring of melody, the steel chassis of the instrument. “Unlike most people, I have kept that perfect first.”