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33 piano, my beloved piano. I let my eyes caress each curve on the instrument. What was it mother had said about my love for the piano? Oh, yes, she’d called it “obsession” and I guess that was the same as love. I wanted to compose and play great works. During the next few weeks I never missed a day in the music room. Nobody seemed to mind that I spent hours alone there. Except that one day I found that I wasn’t really ae alone. At first it was just the piano that I loved. Then I saw something, or should I say someone, who changed my life. One day, after ’'d played for awhile, I kissed the marble tare faced composers, as usual trying to avoid Lizst’s marble mole, then I sank to the floor to relax into the plush blue carpet. In moments, seated at the Steinway, an image began to form. It was a man, a man who was playing my piano. It was as if I were listening to music from a distance, piano music, music as transparent as the man as he took shape before me. As he became more solid, so did his music. He was there and he grew even more real as I watched. Even so, I guess I knew he wasn’t truly there, because I understood that even if I couldn’t see through him, I knew that if I tried to touch him, my fingers would touch nothing. Every time I finished playing in the days following, I lay on that blue rug to watch for him, to wait for him, to listen to He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen, in his severely tailored long coat of black velvet over his black velvet trousers. The coat buttoned high to his throat and his angular white face showed to the best advantage in the light from the windows. Above wonderfully high cheek bones, his huge dark eyes appeared to be stealing glances at me even though he gave the piano his full force and attention. His long face was framed by wind-blown, chin length dark Barbara: The Story of a UFO Investigator