I have not told anyone about this. I don’t want to because the fact that it’s a secret makes it a lot more exciting. But I have to write it down before I forget it. It was a normal day. The only thing that was different was that my hair was straight and I had shorts on for the first time all year. I spent the early afternoon sitting at the tables, talking to different people. He was sitting a few tables down, alone with his computer. I was sitting at a table full of boys, I the only girl. He looked over at me periodically, just staring. I stared back and smile each time. He got up and left. I guess he went home. Then he texted me, telling me that I was coming over to his house with my guitar, he’d pick me up in five minutes. And he did. And I brought my guitar. So I got in his car and threw my guitar in the back. I wasn’t nervous and I didn’t care that my shorts were really short and he was probably looking at my legs. He was listening to the Snow Patrol…which I like a lot. But only because when I stayed at my friend’s house out of town, her and I fell asleep in her sister’s Victorian white bed listening to their new cd--really good sleeping music. So we small talked, sort of sarcastically like we do; almost a mean way of flirting, and he drove to Sonic. He ordered us dr.peppers even though I was starving, I knew he didn’t have much money and I had none. I was totally relaxed and up for being with him. I forgot what I looked like, I stopped worrying about my hair and makeup status. He drove us back to his house. His house was light green; almost the color of grass but with a faded, kaki twist on it. I loved the way it looked. It looked like one of the beach houses in Florida that are on the old streets in the cozy neighborhoods right on the gulf. Except this beach house was right in the middle of Ruston lined with oak trees. It was odd and out of place but almost in a wonderful, original way. Really indie. So we got out of his car. I grab my guitar and we walk up the pathway/ramp that leads to the front door. The green painted rail of the ramp had twinkle lights on it, twirled around it, braided on it. He unlocks his front door. We walk inside. Upon entering his house I felt as though I was stepping into another dimension. I was no longer in college-town. I was no longer in my home-state. I was no longer a freshmen in college world, and everything faded into the back round. All that existed was me, him, and this house. The house smelled old, like antique wood. There was an old-lady sofa with retro flowers on it. There were two pianos, one in the den, one in the living room. But standing at the front door I could see both at once. They were both old, he probably bought them at goodwill or flea markets. I was so consumed in the moment. I set my guitar down and walked slowly through the den into the kitchen. Through the living room. He followed me. I’m sure he was wondering what I was thinking, seeing as my lips were slightly parted and my eyes were opened wide. I was absorbing everything. Then we went back into the den and I sat on his retro yellow couch. I got out my guitar. He sat at his piano which was perpendicular to my sofa. Then he played. I’m not going to lie, I had no idea he could actually play the piano decently. But when his fingers moved along the keys, it came out naturally. Not the freak naturally, like “this person was born autistic and all they can do right in life is play the piano supernaturally well” naturally, more like the “this boy practices everyday” naturally. I got lost in the sounds of the keys and notes blending together, I became hypnotized by the piano noises. I sat back on my retro sofa still holding my guitar, and I sang. I sang to his songs, his Coldplay, his Ryan Adams, his Aqualung. My guard fell down completely. I was now vulnerable to him, because he had broken me with his piano talent. The whole thing was incredibly surreal. I felt like I was in Edward scissor hand’s cave. Society was going on outside, yet him and I were all that existed and mattered. We froze time and sinned socially. We became engulfed in the music together, and even though we hardly knew each other and he was 6 years older than me, it didn’t matter. We were best friends that day, we didn’t need to know anything or be anywhere, all we had and we wanted was all that was there. It was perfect. I began to realize as he continued playing his ancient piano what was really going on. I’m sitting in this man’s den, on his grandmother’s old sofa, listening to him sing and play, and I’m loving it for no reason other than I’ve completely let myself be free and feel what I’m really feeling. This man lives in an old house alone, a house that has old furniture in it and pianos. He collects pianos. He invited me over for reasons that I do not know. I know he thinks I’m pretty, but at the same time I’m too young for him. We do not share mutual friends and we do not have much in common. Yet the afternoon that I spent with him in his home was natural and happy. It was relaxed and surreal. It was like no one knew that we were together, and no one knew that we were making music. No one knew that this was all that mattered and that we stopped time. No one realized that we existed, no one heard that our music was playing. But that didn’t mean that it WASN’T playing.