Moonlight Sonata

They listen to Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata as they do most evenings unless a quarrel or a display of foul temper had ruined the mood but tonight was a success. They drank wine given to them as a late Christmas present and now they talk through giggling fits about their day and about that poor woman at the firm who still tries to ask them both, separately, out for dinner. Their overly groomed hair, their slick suits, the slight skip in their step – stereotypes seemed to transcend her which they conclude is a good thing. However, to put her out of her misery they decide that tomorrow one of them should inform her. They both make a mental note, long forgotten by the morning.

He suggests they call it a night and they move to the bed, dazed by sleep and warm wine. He takes a seat on top of the thick white duvet and pats his lap soon met by a head full of velvety black hair. They both stop talking, he strokes the velvety strands and a pair of eyelids fall shut once, twice and permanently a third time but his remain open. During these moments he allows himself to think, whilst the other drifts through that delicate veil of dreams, impenetrable by those awake. Seated upright he dares to think deeply, there is no risk of being overheard. They have lived together for so long, thoughts that used to be sealed envelopes become easily exposed like obtrusive greeting cards, shouting and screeching when opened. He learned it is better to keep shut, until separated by unconsciousness.

He begins to think about how frightened he is and how he is not sure if the extent of his fear is understood or justified. But you see, he is getting older and doubts crowd his mind like a stuffy subway during rush our, obtrusive doubts about their relationship, whether it is fair, whether it is the right thing. For him? Yes of course! He would not want anything else but for HIM, beautiful and brave him, how could this be enough?

He thinks about his reflection and how it appears to be fading, the greyness of his hair has swept over his skin and into his eyes that were once blue and green are now mossy and pale, hidden behind thick rimmed spectacles. He is scared of losing the one person he has ever been able to love, a love recognized by effortlessness. It was an inherent feeling yet a feeling he never knew he had the capacity for. A whole new part of his body had opened up but with that came a rush of worry, a heavy anxiety wrapped around his neck. Insecurities pile over each other as he thinks about whether he is too boring, an old grouch, nothing special. He thinks about how times have changed. They no longer have to hide their sexuality in dusty homes with unhappy wives and yet this house is dusty. This life ,for a young ambitious man, this life must be dusty and boring and so far from the glamorous lifestyle there is potential for.

If only he could wake him, only slightly, only softly and have his fears confirmed or washed away by a reassuring blink of those wonderful brown eyes.

As these heavy clouds pregnant with worry hover around the room, a teardrop falls unnoticed on the sheets. A teardrop followed by a wide smile and recollections of the warm meal they just shared, the beautiful music, the sweet wine, the comfort of being here and lying like this, being gently stroked to sleep. It was a drop of undiluted happiness, so pure it fell without a sound, squeezed out of blissful thoughts.

The darker shades of night fall over the house and the Moonlight Sonata fades into silence. They both lie awake for a little longer, careful not to make a sound.