For some reason, I always picture him playing the piano. Dazzling blue eyes shut to the world, his fingers dance over the keys of my mind’s-eye piano, composing something with my name as the title. It’s strange, because I know he doesn’t play the piano. I’ve asked.

In real life, he doesn’t posess a single musical bone in his entire body. The truth is, when we’re both driving in his car, I turn up the music just a little bit louder, because he can’t even carry a decent tune on his own.

In real life, running is his forte. He runs by my house every morning while the sun is still rising. He’s beautiful in all of his sweaty, three-miles-left-to-go glory. With the sun rising over the hill behind him, he glows.

Sometimes I get up early just to watch him.

He doesn’t go anywhere when he runs. His route is a looped one – he begins and ends in his driveway. I never understood – still don’t understand – how he finds fulfillment in that.

He’s a runner. And yet, in my mind he will always play the piano.