Virtuoso (noun)
Definition:
1. Exceptional performer: a musician who shows exceptional ability, technique, or artistry.

Michael sat on the floor of his studio, sheet music all around him. Some of it was blank; some was scrawled with his handwritten notes. Verdi’s Requiem played softly on the stereo behind him.
He was the picture of a classical musician: perfect posture, a calm demeanor, and long, slender fingers; perfect for playing the piano or holding the bow of a violin. Many of his classmates (especially the girls) only went to his concerts just so they could see him dressed up in finery under bright stage lights. They found him to be “good-looking:” tall and slender, with blonde hair and high cheekbones. He found it all so superficial. They didn’t understand the depth of what he was trying to show to them. They were merely dolls; pretty, stylized dolls created to follow fashions and cheap trends. They didn’t have the capacity to grasp the beauty of the delicately woven pieces.
The people who went to his concerts for the music didn’t truly understand either. All they wanted was proof that this 15-year-old kid could actually play, and when they found out that he could, they pretended to be entranced and amazed by him.
Not even his own parents understood. Sure, they had adopted him six years ago, saving him from the hellhole that was the orphanage, but all they wanted was fame. They dashed for the cameras, leaving him behind at the first instant.
They all made Michael sick.
Drawing himself off of the floor, Michael gathered his sheet music. He saw no more reason to try anymore if the only things he was going to get were plastic classmates there for appearances sake, and “parents” that only wanted what he brought with him. Nothing he did would bring anything to the world.
He slammed the paper down onto the desk, jarring his hand. Screw this. Screw it all. He knocked the table on its side just as Requiem reached his favorite point. He couldn’t take it. He was leaving this place, and never coming back.
Throwing his coat on, Michael stormed out of the room. Ignoring his mother’s startled shout, he steadfastly marched outside into the cold December air. He walked all the way to the park before plopping down on the bench, slumping over, and draping his long thin arms forward, resting on the cold plastic between his knees. If this is what it was like to be lost, then Michael reasoned that he was pretty far gone. The only thing he could do was to try to remember what it was like before he was “discovered” to be the musical person that he was.
Eight years ago, before the fire, Michael merely enjoyed music as a hobby. He still remembered his mother, his real mother, taking him to a Pops concert when he was young. He remembered the majesty of the Opera house and the beauty of the music that wafted up into the rafters. When he had left, he told his mother that he was going to play there someday. And he would be the star of the show. Her tinkling bell-like laughter was the last of that memory, along with her telling him that he could do anything that he wanted to. She soon took him to lessons for piano and violin, encouraging him in whatever way possible. His father too took an interest in Michael’s talent, taking the three of them to more and more concerts and performances.
But then the fire put an end to all of that.
When he was adopted, he was hopeful, so hopeful that the people who chose him would love the music as much as he did. When he first played for them, they looked shocked and didn’t seem to know what to say. Realizing his talent, they brought him to a music coach.
After that, music became a chore. It was no longer the fun pastime he enjoyed. He had developed, in a sense. He knew how to analyze music just by hearing it; with merely a snatch of tune he could figure out what instruments were used and the key of the piece.
But the music had lost its soul. Michael no longer felt the ecstasy that came with playing a piece of music; it was now just a storm of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
He was immediately snapped out of his reverie when another person plopped down on the bench beside him. It was a young woman, looking about a year younger than him, with ginger hair and freckles. He wanted to snap; to lash out at her for disturbing his thoughts and release all of his pent up anger upon this stranger. But after a deep breath, he realized that was both irrational and unfair. She had done nothing to harm him, and the hole that was his existence was certainly not her fault. Instead of speaking, he turned and examined the person that had landed so unceremoniously down on the plastic seat next to him. She had a rather long nose, and it was pointed quite sharply at the end. Her ears were very red from the raw cold of the winter air, and had an ear bud from an iPod jammed into each. Her skin was pale, and the cherries of her cheeks were a rosy red from the raw air. The black fleece hat she wore clung tightly to her head, forcing the hair to billow out over her shoulders at the nape of her neck. It’s ginger shade stood out like a beacon in the grey day.
She seemed to realize his stare, for she turned to face him. Her voice was made raw with the cold, but the interest it held was sincere. “Are you gonna be okay?”  She sounded like she had a bad head cold.
He was startled by her question. “What do you mean by that?”
She shrugged. “ You just looked like your world was going to Hell in a hand-basket”
What was up with her? “Why do you care? I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.” The frigidity in his voice made her back off a bit. Man, he thought, I’ve really done it now. I didn’t mean that at all. I hope she doesn’t take it wrong.  His thoughts surprised him. Why did he care what she thought?
She sent him a level look, bordering on a glare. She turned back to face the street. “You’re right. I don’t know you.” Her next words were mumbled so he could barely hear them. “Excuse me for caring.” She sighed and continued, at a pitch he could hear over the buzz of the street. “But what does that mean? Even though you don’t know my name, you know me as a person. Isn’t that good enough?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. But it would be kinda helpful to know your name. Just so I know who I’m talking to.”
“Sandra. It’s a pleasure to meet you…”
“Michael. Same here.”
She nodded in acknowledgement. “So, you wanna talk about why you look like your world is collapsing in on itself?”
But he didn’t want to talk about that yet. So he hedged. “This is the first time a stranger has ever asked me to explain my problems.”
She laughed. “And how does that make you feel?” She asked, smirking and quirking up one eyebrow.
“Truth be told, not too disconcerted, surprisingly.” He had no idea why it was so easy to keep talking. Maybe it was something about the fact that once their conversation ended, each would go their separate ways, never to meet again. “I should be feeling a little odd, shouldn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Their conversation had reached a standstill. Cars rushed past in front of them. Seeking something, anything, to break the silence (wait, why did he care about the quiet?) Michael picked up the easiest thread of conversation he could find. “What are you listening to?”
“Hm? Oh, Gershwin. Rhapsody in Blue”
“Really?”
“Does that strike you as strange?”
“A bit.”
“You like him?”
“He’s good, but I prefer more classical music.”
“You ever listen to Holst?”
“The Planets? Of course I have!”
She grinned at him. “Nice to know there’s someone who shares my taste in music. Then again, maybe not.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, to put it simply, my tastes are rather…eclectic.”
“Okay…”
“But you’re beating around the bush! I hate that. Are you gonna answer my question or what? If you don’t wanna, that’s okay, just say so. I won’t be heartbroken, I assure you.”
“Well,” Michael paused, unsure how to start. “I really like music, and performing. But when people express interest in what I do, I feel like they just want to, I don’t know.”
“Seem more intelligent or interesting than they are? Make an impressive friend as some sort of trophy?”
Michael didn’t know what to say to that, as she had hit the nail on the head. “Yeah, exactly,” was all that came to mind as suitable.
“I can’t say I know how you feel, ‘cause I don’t. But I at least see what’s going on. And, let me guess, you finally got sick of it and booked it?”
“More or less,” Michael shrugged, trying to seem blasé. In reality, he was overjoyed that she understood him.
But then a little voice in his mind brought him back to reality. Why do you care, again? It asked, but this time Michael had an answer for it. Because she wants to be my friend. She wants to know me for me, not for what I bring along.
All of a sudden, Michael heard the digital ringing of a cell phone. Sandra frowned and dug through her bag. “Excuse me,” she said as she flicked open the cover. “Hello?”
Michael heard garbled sound on the other end, to quiet to decipher.
“Yeah. Okay, will do. ‘Bye.”
Sandra flicked the phone closed and shoved it into her bag. “It’s time for me to leave, unfortunately,” she said, and Michael was filled with a sudden irrational urge to ask her to come to one of his concerts. “But, before I go,” she continued, “could you tell me when your next performance is? I’d like to see it.”
Quickly catching his brain up to speed, Michael nodded. “Um, yeah. I’ve got one on the 10th.” Sandra nodded and scribbled in a memo pad. “It’s at 8:30, down in the old Opera house.” She nodded.
“That it?”
“Yes.”
“Alrighty then!” She put the small pad of paper back in her bag. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Michael waved absently, his brain still trying to catch up with what just took place. “’Bye.”
And with that, Sandra jogged off. After collecting his scattered thoughts, Michael turned around and headed for home.
The next few weeks passed quickly for Michael. He practiced and practiced in order to be perfect for this concert. When the 10th finally came, and he stood backstage at the opera house, Michael tried to calm his nerves. He was playing a relatively simple piece, but that didn’t help. Taking a few deep breaths, he straightened his coat and walked onstage, his face blank. Polite applause began as he approached the stool, and ceased once he sat. His fingers, poised to begin, trembled imperceptibly. He inhaled, and began.
Once the performance was over, Michael sat backstage, wondering if Sandra had even shown up. In hindsight, Michael figured that she just asked to be polite. Oh well.
“Michael? That you?” He turned in response to the voice. “Yes?”
“I’ve been looking all over for you! Why did you hideout back here?” Sandra was standing there, a look of vexation on her face. “How in blazes was I supposed to find you?” she was wearing a long satin dress with a lacy shawl over her shoulders.
“Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. I normally sit back here afterwards.” He moved to the end of the bench. “Do you want to sit?”
She sat down, and turned to face him. “That was brilliant, Michael!”
He felt heat rising in his face. It had been a long time since someone had said that to him. “Really? It was a simple piece.”
She rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t matter. You put your soul into the song. That’s what matters. And that’s why it was totally amazing.” She put her hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks. Really, that means a lot.”
She grinned at him, and stood up. After smoothing out her dress, she held out her hand. “My family’s going out to dinner, and I was wondering if you and possibly your family would like to join us.”
Michael took the proffered hand and pulled himself up. “I’d love to come. I think my parents are kind of busy, though.”
Not letting his hand go, she stepped next to him, still smiling. “ Okay. Well, shall we?”
He nodded. “We shall.”
And with that, they walked off, hand in hand.