I perched quietly on the arm of the dirty white couch. I should have closed my eyes and tried to catch the exquisite melodies as they drifted by, but I couldn't divert my gaze from his hands. It's not that they were particularly beautiful hands either; his palms were dirty from riding his motorbike, his nails needed clipping, and his right pinky was crooked from when he had broken it playing baseball. But they danced across the piano keys with all the passion of the great composers whose pieces he played. His own pure and heartfelt emotions and his unconditional love for the task led them in their dance, giving each note an identity. Even when they stumbled, the recovery was graceful, as though it were an intended step. The music itself was not flawless, but the movements of his hands were a true work of art.