"A Singular Gift"

Julian sits, barefoot, at the piano. His hands rest lightly on his thighs. A glass of cabernet is within reach and candlelight shimmers over the elegant bones of his face. He is very still, as if he’s waiting for something.

Or someone.

Outside the window, snow falls in soft lazy flakes. Winter is here, but indoors the only sign of the season is a string of white fairy lights sparkling amid the leaves of a potted fig tree.

We meet every year at this time. It’s about magic for me – the magic of the holidays, and the magic in his hands. As with most musicians who prize an instrument over vital body parts, the Steinway is a part of him. I rarely hear him play, but once a year, at this time of year, he plays for me.

“Shall I begin?” he asks, and I know that he knows I’ve arrived.

I look around the loft, at raw brick walls splashed with abstract canvases, at glossy fir floors and buttery leather furniture. Naturally, there’s a fire. He’ll never be a fan of artificial light.

“How ’bout a drink?” I ask.

He slips me a pained sidelong look and deigns to keep silent. Now is not the time for our brand of verbal jousting.

I make myself at home on the couch. The piano is behind me, angled to put Julian’s back to mine. He sits a moment longer, to be assured that I’m settled. I breathe in, breathe out, close my eyes, and wait.

The silence ripples like still water disturbed by a falling leaf. The fire murmurs in the grate. He will drag this out until I’m on the brink of snapping, but I know why he’s reluctant. It’s a measure of his affection that he’s willing to give me this one thing when he’d as soon ignore it on his own.

As usual, I considered skipping it this year, but he loves jazz and he loves his piano … and he loves me. Just as the reminder crosses my mind, the music begins: a gentle twinkling of notes cascading effortlessly into the opening of my favourite holiday instrumental—Christmastime is Here, played with the same artless panache as if Vince himself is at the keyboard.

Julian is true to the recording, though he can’t resist adding his own air-brushed embellishments during the extended bridge. That’s when I know that his passion for the music has eclipsed his fondness for me, and for a few minutes more, he and I are bound by the same spell: a mutual love of music and of each other, regardless of the season.

I’m sunk in the cushions, warm and safe and drowsy, when the last notes dwindle and the Steinway falls silent. “Was it good for you?” he asks with a smile in his voice.

“As always,” I reply. I stand up to go. “Thank you, Jules.”

“My pleasure,” he says. He’s still seated at the piano and his hands are back on his thighs. I want to duck in and kiss his cheek but a) his personal space is precious and b) you don’t come at a vampire from behind. I’d like to wish him a merry Christmas, too.

I don’t. I thank him again, then I leave.

He doesn’t celebrate Christmas anymore.