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Astrid reaches the end of a phrase, hits something wrong, and stops.

She tries it again.

Same place.

“Fuck.”

I laugh.

She looks over her shoulder.

“I know you are listening.”

“Hard not to.”

“Come here. Let me see you.”

I go.

She waits until I sit where she can see me, and then she looks up, and she holds my eyes.

Then she puts her hands on the keys and starts again.

She wants me watching.

Astrid is beautiful. I knew that before I knew one other thing about her, and so did every person who has ever been in a room with her. She knows exactly what it is to be looked at.

But she chose my eyes for this.

Her shoulders move with the phrasing now. Her hands strike harder when the music demands it, then soften until I lean forward without realizing I’ve moved.

She looks at me once and doesn’t stop.

The next passage comes fuller.

I know what she looks like naked.

This feels more intimate.

The hand starts again.

I barely notice.

When the last note fades, her hands remain on the keys.

Neither of us moves.

I finally breathe.

“Fuck.”

“Good fuck or bad fuck?”

“You know.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

I stand.