AN: This is basically an expansion of this poem. Tell me what you think -- the sparsity of the dialogue is on purpose.
The night is frigid; a mixture of snow, ice and slush frosts the sidewalks and the streets, which are dotted with footprints from an array of different boots. As cars drive by, the slush flies to the side and gathers at the edges of the sidewalk and creates tiny hills. The forecast says that it is five degrees, but it feels like negative ten with the windchill. The inhabitants of the city take different measures to find solace from the bitter cold. Outside, those by themselves rub their gloved hands together and wrap their scarves tightly around their faces. Couples find warmth in each other through passionate embraces, and families walk briskly as they await the heated indoors. Some dance and flirt at bars, some curl in cushioned chairs to a variety of movies, and others find comfort in the enchantment of music.
At a grand music hall near the center hub of the city, an impressive crowd gathered to hear a harpist perform. She had been doing concerts at the music hall ever since her graduation from Julliard. or herself since then. Tonight is no different than her other concerts. The audience sits comfortably in their blue-velvet seats, dressed in nothing but their best. They eye the dark stage where the golden harp stands, waiting patiently to be played. A wooden stool where the harpist would sit is beside it. It is when the clock strikes eight-thirty a few minutes later that the lights dim and fade to black, with a glowing band of light fixating on the glimmering instrument and stool. Seconds afterward, a young woman with pale skin and caramel-brown hair gathered in a high ponytail walks onto the stage. She's wearing bright red lipstick and a black dress with lace at the edges. She's met with applause and responds with a simple smile. She sits upon the stool and the hall becomes quiet. Her fingers are shaking as she clasps the harp in her hands and gently begins plucking the strings. Despite many performances, she's never lost her shy nature.
From the first note, the audiences are entranced with her skill. The harpist makes it seem very easy the way her fingers gently glide across the strings like angels dancing in the clouds. As she continues, the audience listen in awe, thinking of what they will tell their friends. Is it Majestic? Soft? Elegant? Beautiful? They soon come to realize that there are no words to describe what they are hearing. She can play each note perfectly. All too soon, the concert comes to a close as the lights go up and harpist does one last glissando and stands up to take a bow. Almost perfectly in sync, those in the chairs stand up and give her a thunderous applause. She smiles modestly and her pale cheeks flood with color. Those who have been to her concerts before have brought bouquets of roses; they throw them onto the stage and she manages to catch a few. She exits out the metal door that leads to backstage. She'll come out in five minutes for some gentle music that will play them out.
When she comes back, most of audience are still there; they're putting on their coats and preparing to brave the cold. The harpist sits back on her stool and plays gentle scales. She does this until the last of them leave; until she is alone in the auditorium.
Tonight, she'll go home to her dark apartment, maybe practice some more before bed; she has another concert tomorrow evening at this same hall in which she'll perform the same songs.
Behind the very back seats, a young man opens a tiny black door and starts to walk to the stage. The harpist doesn't know his name; they change whoever operates the lights for her shows nearly every other day. He ascends the petite staircase and turns her way, congratulating her on a job well done. Then he leaves out the metal door and she is alone once more. It takes her a minute to think about how she feels. Despite everything, she is not happy. She stares at the bouquets of roses lying across stage, she remembers the standing ovation. The audience loved her, as always; tomorrow she'll get a handsome check and will once again escape debt that plague so many her age. The harpist sighs and gets up from the stool. It is getting late; the later it gets the colder it will become. Although she doesn't have far to walk until her apartment, but she figures she could use rest and some food – she doesn't have the opportunity to eat dinner until after her concerts on performance days.
She walks toward the edge of the stage and opens the door to the backstage hall of the auditorium. It is deserted save for her manager, who is in his coat and has his car keys in his hand; he is getting ready to leave. He waves and exits out the door.
The harpist smiles but says nothing. She goes back to her private practice room, where she left her warm clothing; a pair of sweatpants, her coat, hat, mittens and boots. She slips on the sweatpants under her dress and puts on her boots. The harpist buttons up her coat; black and woolen, she remembers buying it with her mother. Her hat and mittens are both made of the same thick white yarn with knitted black flowers. They were a gift from her grandmother two years ago, who is now dead. She takes down her ponytail, puts both of them on and says goodbye to the auditorium for the night.
The first thing she notices when she leaves is how empty and desolate the streets seem. The cars still drive by as they fling more slush to the edges of the sidewalk, and she passes the occasional person desperate to find a place of heat, but most who sought solace on this evening are either warm in their homes or have gotten where they needed to go. And again, she sighs. Eight blocks later she has arrived at her apartment. Because she is curious, she takes out her cell phone from her coat pocket and sees that it is just after ten. Before she puts it back, she takes note of the fact that there are no new missed calls or texts. Kicking the excess snow off her boots, she takes out her keys and enters her apartment, greeted by the emptiness of the white carpet and silver doors distinguishable only by . Careful not to wake those who are sleeping, she goes halfway down the hallway where she is greeted by the ivory buttons and silver doors of the elevator. She presses the button plainly marked with '7' and takes her customary ride up to apartment 701.
It is dark when she walks in. She turns on the light, takes off her coat, mittens and boots but leaves her hat on and goes to her kitchen. Realizing her starvation, she heats up a macaroni and cheese frozen dinner and thinks about the day, how she is not happy even though she should be.
It is this, she realizes. Her life, each bit of it. She has felt this way ever since coming to the city to attend Julliard. But she got through it, finding pleasure in her studies and in her harp. When her plans were nonexistent after school hours, she practiced her harp and felt better. But since she graduated and moved to live in this apartment, she realizes each night has been, with some variation, the same. On Tuesdays she has practice with the city orchestra from nine to one with a break for lunch. On other days, she'll go to Starbucks if she has money, otherwise she'll have cereal. She will watch TV and heat up a frozen dinner for lunch. She'll shower, and then she goes and spends her afternoons in the music hall, practicing, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays when she's giving private lessons. Otherwise she'll go to a movie or do something else to escape her feelings. She'll stay out late either way, come home and have a night like the night she is having now. Occasionally she'll receive a call from a high school in the district asking to substitute for orchestra classes.
All of her tomorrows will follow this pattern, she realizes. Tears began to stream down her cheeks; she is not in the mood to practice any more tonight. As she cries, she wonders why she is so sad. This is typical – she's lived like this for months. Why, only now, does she think about her emotions? She walks into the living room, where her couch and TV.
Then she gets it. These emotions have been circulating ever since the first day she arrived in the city, but she had been trying to deny them, trying to remain happy. Only now does she realize how sad she truly is. But denial never works.
The harpist goes to a window directly to the right of her TV and pushes aside the lavender curtains . As she looks down into the night, noticing how small everything seems. She's high up. She thinks it will be high enough. It should. Before opening the window, she thinks for a moment. Maybe one day her life will change, maybe it will get better. She'll make a friend or maybe meet a nice young man, who, for the first time in her life, would tell her that he loves her. But then she thinks of the endless days just like this one that she'll have to endure before that happens. She doesn't want to bear it. She's shaking, she realizes. With her last bit of strength, she opens the window ever so slightly. It's cold. It's very cold. She tries to ignore it as she slides her legs out and says one last prayer.
She doesn't leave a note. She knows no one would be around to read it.
