Tryptic

I am with three old friends, we are at the Royal Albert Hall, a place we have been to once or twice. The venue is exotic and plush the way all dreams should be. All of us are grey beards, we are wearing tuxedoes, our white dress shirts tailored to conceal comfortable bellies. I know these guys, one has led a dangerous life, one a sad life, one trod a footloose way. There are no others in this vast auditorium. An elderly Brahms and full orchestra are busting through his monumental second piano concerto. Occasionally my friends look at me, smile and shrug, It's a recognition that we have been through all this music before, played every note in fact. When the music ends the stocky, cigar-stained hand of Brahms gestures us to join him. We stand and bow respectfully, but decline. Outside this great hall we agree that just one of us would be quite enough, two then fold inwards vowing to never be parted, and certainly, we have no wish to outlive each other.