When he was in his groove, there were no mistakes. Not one. There was a delicacy in his fingers, they were very thin and effeminate. Pianist's fingers. It was almost as if they keys were made of velvet the way they glided back and forth over the pattern in his head. He didn't need notes to read off of. Despite it being years since he'd played this tune, it was no different than the first time.
The people started to crowd in a little tighter, some kind of disgusted. They were having a party. Who was this guy? Was he drunk? Then again no drunk man could play that damn good.
Wolfgang was in his own little bubble, the playing getting louder as he became more engrossed with the sounds feeding off the energy of the people in the room. He always impressed and disgusted at the same time. Some would forever be jealous of what he could accomplish as if it came so easy.