Concert of wills

Peter sets the violin down gently, so as not to make a sound. The long bit of practice leaves him fully charged. A collision of emotion and physical prowess wear down the elements of nature that stifle.

"Peter, where are you?" Mandy appears back stage. Her performance rivals Peter's, but it lacks punch. It lacks Peter.

"I'm just here, Mand." Peter places his violin in the case, carefully.

"Peter, you play marvelously. I hope to play like that one day." Mandy reminds Peter of a puppy, gifted but not mature enough to know it. When will she learn?

"Mand, you gave and gave in today's performance. It was brilliant. You do not afford yourself enough credit. You must know that, yes?" Peter resists the temptation to condescend, which is a uniquely British struggle.

"Yes, I did, Peter. But, no one noticed. No one laughed."

"Laughed? They owe you laughter?" Peter sits down, drinks his water.

"Of course, Peter, it is a comedic piece. For violin."

"A comedic piece for violin? Don't be absurd? That is not appropriate."

"Clearly, you didn't laugh either, did you? No worry. I didn't cry during your performance." Mandy, clearly perturbed, places her violin in her case. "I'll be leaving for Lisbon in the morning. I play for the PortPhil tomorrow evening."

"Good luck, Mandy."

"Thank you, Peter."

"Good night, Mandy." Peter turns to walk away.

"Peter, you forgot your soul tonight. You left it outside."

"I know, Mandy, I know."

Peter keeps walking. Mandy cries, softly at first, then harder. No one is laughing now.