The landlady promised a soundproof room.
And now everybody walking past the street stops and listens.
It’s not that I fear performing behind a curtained stage, three stories high and burned down once.
Nor that my neighbors would complain, since there are none but only pigeons, cooing or booing I cannot tell.
There’s this girl whose image still haunts me whenever I play the music.
Who’s this girl, I guess I will never know.
She never smiles, and has a stare cold as an arrow pinning you against the lake bed in the North Pole.
But she is beautiful, I know everybody would say so.
When the eternal sunshine reveals everything colorful around you.
The swaying seagrass is her hair. The reflecting sparkles she wears as gems.
Her lips remind me of holly berries dangling on my balcony last Christmas Eve.
I played Sibelius’ Andante Festivo instead of the Christmas carol.
The snowy landscape became clear as the main theme marched with passion and a sense of purpose.
The warmth was gathered in weight like carpets, weaved from colors and stories.
It became heavier and heavier. My eyes flew open when I felt like carrying fire with my bow and fingers.
“What the…?” I exclaimed in horror and confusion, but my words came out as mere whispers.
My instrument was covered with plaster, liquid snow solidifying over the strings and the body.
I stepped back as quickly as I possibly could, for the girl reappeared and was ready to put more on the bridge.
“Why?” was my next word, as I tried frantically to remove the substance.
“Need something shiny,” was the answer, like a sneer. “A design practice.”
The same thing would happen afterwards, again and again.
My eyes soon became vigilant but the music soared and dropped like sands in the desert.
My boyfriend asked what happened when I once hit him with the bow so fiercely that his maroon coat was imprinted with a long strip of rosin powder.
“There.” I pointed to the girl dully, sitting on the shelf and mixing the plaster and water into a magic potion.
“Well, I see,” he claimed while looking in the wrong direction.
But gradually, I noticed something on the girl’s face that had never been there before.
It prickled and irritated her as if there was a thorn in her side.
“Kiss me,” I said one day, before anything could stop me.
The hesitation on my boyfriend’s face annoyed me, so I took action.
I glanced through my eyelids when his breath fogged up my glasses.
Nothing there.
I gave a sigh of relief and plucked idly at the strings, sinking further into the kiss.
River on Baltic Sea 
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