In the living room of Mitra’s house
Mitra: Davin, it is now May. In June we are to be married. I’m getting excited. Are you?
Davin, writing in a notebook at a table: Of course.
Mitra: That doesn’t sound excited. Are you sure you want to marry me?
Mitra; Hmmm. Who is Maji?
Davin, still intent on his poem: Oh, nobody.
Mitra: Nobody? But last week you wrote a love poem to her. I saw it posted on Facebook.
Davin: Oh, that was just imagination. Now please be quiet and let me finish this poem.
Mitra: Yesterday you were gone for three hours. Were you seeing Maji?
Davin, expressing exasperation: Yes. But she didn’t see me.
Mitra: Oh, first she is imagination, and now you go to see her. What was she doing?
Davin: She was playing her piano.
Mitra: What? Now I have a rival who plays piano? Are you becoming a pianist lover? What was she playing? Could you hear?
Mitra: What?! She plays my favorite composer too!? Oh, Davin, don’t you love me anymore?
Davin: Of course I love you.
Mitra: “Of course, of course”! And you keep writing! Is that all you can think of—writing poems?
Davin: If you keep interrupting me, I’ll never finish.
Mitra: She’s probably no good, hits the wrong keys, gets out of tempo, doesn’t really love Chopin.
Davin: Is that all you think of—loving Chopin? Actually, she plays just as well as you.
Mitra: Oh, my gosh, not only do I have a rival, but a twin sister, too!
Davin: She is very beautiful.
Mitra: Are you now writing how beautiful she is? Oh, Davin, I think we are not going to be married!
Davin, after a few minutes of silent writing; There! I’m finished! Maji is going to love this! let me read it to you!
Mitra, almost in tears: How can you be so cruel!
Davin, getting up, putting his arms around Mitra: Mitra, my only darling, my beloved, sweet, most adorable one, you know how a poet’s imagination can run away with him. So, be strong now, and listen.
Mitra: Oh, why should I? What good will it do? You tell me be strong, so you must be falling in love with her!
Davin: I am. You’ll see.
Mitra: Oh! I knew it!
Davin: There once was a girl named Mitra,
Most beautiful in all the land.
She loved to play piano;
I heard where I did stand.
For some three hours I watched her,
But me she did not see,
And so I name her Maji,
Who imagines what could be!
Mitra: Davin! You were watching me practice for three hours!?
Davin: Yes. It was wonderful. You were lost in beautiful notes and chords, soft touches, dreamy expression. I was enraptured.
Mitra: But I made mistakes!
Davin: You corrected them beautifully.
Mitra, now beaming: Oh, Davin, we are really going to be married! But, wait! What about that poem three weeks ago?
Davin: Oh, that was nothing. Or, wait a minute…maybe I had Korla in mind.
Mitra: Korla? What? Another pianist, a triplet?
Davin: Oh, no. Korla plays the cello.
Mitra: Oh, Davin, what am I going to do with you and your imagination?
Davin: I know. Imagine I am Chopin and play one long note with your lips—here, on mine.