They say a picture is worth a thousand words, we'll give you 500. Half a Picture.

In his dream, she’s a blonde violinist.

She smiles at him, and it lights him up. She mouths “good luck”, and gives him an airy kiss. It floats between their lips for an instant that will stay with him. In his old age he will remember this instant, he will remind her and she will smile that smile again, and he will be lit.

Then he goes on stage, and plays. The keys kneeing at his fingertips, he glides over the keyboard. The grand piano making grand music in the grand hall before the grand audience. They sit, hushed, watching, listening to him. There are many of them, hundreds if not thousands. He plays for one though, and she stands in the wings, violin in hand, her hands fingering the strings, silently accompanying him.

Then she comes on stage, and together they make music. Sweet, beautiful music. In unison, completing each other. He lowers his scale, she jumps an octave, together. They don’t watch each other while playing, each is sucked deep into their instrument. But they hear, he hears her and she hears him. The strings and keys join together, and the music flows forth and fills the hall. Seeping into each member of the audience, filling them. And they know. They all know the music is true music. It is distilled and honest and genuine. They will never hear such music again.

But the two of them will. Every day they hear the music, they see it, they smell it, feel it. One doesn’t feel in dreams, but he feels this. He knows this isn’t real. But it will be. He will meet her one day, and they will make the music together. He doesn’t even play.

But in his dreams, she’s a blonde violinist.