Here’s that damn story I wanted to tell you

I’m extremely impatient. Just typing these words, I’m thinking to myself, “Why couldn’t you have been with me when the story I want to tell you happened so that I wouldn’t have to tell it to you?”

Anyway, here’s the story. I got tired of listening to Chopin on Spotify. It’s a tinny sound. I imagine it’s what it would be like to see a copy of a Picasso printed in dot matrix. So, I got in my time-machine and rode instantly to Chopin’s home in Paris in 1837.

I brought a really big watermelon with me. I read on Wikipedia that its Chopin’s favorite food. I knocked, Chopin answered, saw the watermelon, and quickly invited me in. We walked briskly to the kitchen, where he got out a big knife  and cut the watermelon in half. He gave me half and a spoon. Then plunged his face into the other half. He was savage in his ravishing of the fruit.

I was just eating my second spoonful of watermelon, when Chopin finished and stood up, his face glistening with red juice. He didn’t seem to mind that it ran down onto his jacket and shirt. He asked me if I was going to finish my half of the watermelon. I said no and handed it to him, and he proceeded to disappear into that as well.

When he was done, Chopin asked me if I had any more watermelon. I said I didn’t and asked if he would do me the favor of playing some of his selections on piano. He got upset and said I was holding out on him. I said it would be obvious if I had more of the fruit. He said it was highly possible I was hiding other watermelons in my horse and carriage. He left the kitchen and went out the front door. He came back, frustrated there was no such vehicle parked outside.

I asked Chopin again if he would kindly play me a song or two of his. He said that he was in a fowl mood and that I needed to leave. I said that if he played me the songs, I would go out and come back with more watermelon. Chopin said that if I went out and came back with three more watermelons, he would play me three songs.

I agreed and left. I took my time-machine to today, went to the store, bought three watermelons, and returned to 1837  and Chopin’s home. I watched while Chopin fervently devoured the fruits, one after another. By now, his entire outfit was drenched in the juice. He began rambling incoherently. I chalked that up to blood sugar overwhelm.

I took Chopin by the arm and guided him from room to room, until we came upon his piano in the solarium. I sat him down at the piano. He sat still in a stupor. I put his hands on the keys and began making a metronome sound by repeatedly clicking my tongue. He slumped onto the keys and began to snore.

I got upset at myself for needing things to be perfect. Why couldn’t I be satisfied with the way things are?

Chopin rolled off the piano and slumped to the floor. I picked him up and carried him upstairs to the bedroom. I got him out of his fruit soiled outfit, and into a night shirt and night cap. I laid him in bed, and pulled up the cover.

I took a moment to watch him sleep. It was soothing to observe the breath come and go.