You said, "That was beautiful," and I almost dropped my violin.
Not because it was wrong. Because it was unspecific. In Leipzig, we are precise people. We compliment tempo, intonation, the angle of a wrist. We do not use words like beautiful in the corridor outside the rehearsal room, not at half past ten at night, not to me.
I am the one who stays late. The others left an hour ago — the cellist with her coat already buttoned, the conductor with his scarf and his sigh. I stayed because the third movement has a rest I keep clipping. Eight bars of silence, and I cannot stop counting them like a nervous heartbeat. You were in the hallway, waiting for someone else, I think. Or maybe not. You stayed anyway.
You asked if I always play like that. I said, "Bach is easy. It is simple. He tells you where to put your fingers and you put them, and if you are honest, it sounds like prayer." You laughed, low, surprised. I liked that. I made a small joke and you took it seriously, which is the only way I know how to flirt.
Here is what I noticed: you noticed my hands. Not in the way people usually do — long fingers, artist's hands, compliments like coins. You noticed the callus on my left index finger, the tiny ink mark from editing bowings. You said, "That looks like a map of somewhere." I wanted to say it is a map of every place I have failed and repeated until the failure turned into music. Instead I said, "It is just skin."
I am not good at being seen. I am good at cadences. I am good at showing up early and tuning to the oboe and keeping my face still while my mind wanders to the bakery on the corner, the one with the rye that is too dense, the one I buy anyway. I am good at pretending I do not want anyone to wait for me in a hallway at half past ten.
You reached for my case — "Let me" — and I let you. It weighs more than it looks. You grunted. I did not smile. I did, but I turned away so you would not see. Outside, the tram was coming, the street smelled like rain and diesel, and you asked if I had a favorite recording. I said, "No. I have a favorite silence between movements. It is very short. Almost no one hears it." You said, "Play it for me sometime."
That is the thing about compliments. They are rests. You have to trust them enough to stop counting. I am not there yet. But I walked the long way home, and I did not check my phone, and when I got to my door I stood in the dark for a moment and thought: he noticed the ink mark.
So. If you meant it — about the silence, about the map on my finger — say so. I will be in the same corridor on Thursday, after ten. I will pretend I am not waiting. You will know better. But you have to be specific. That is the only way I know how to believe you.