Ficlet: Not Boring.

Perhaps watching him was too obvious. The dullness that enveloped the godawful conference was close to driving him to commit homicide just to make it interesting when the younger man had walked in.
His head was tilted towards the floor and a folder was clutched in the crook of his arm. He was on the thin side, blazer with the most ugly tie he had ever seen, and suddenly he had a desperate need to see his face. It was like there was a sea of the intolerable, the boring, the ignorant, and there someone stood, the antithesis of that. He just knew, as he did with most things, that he was right.
His hands, in one swift motion, began to strike the keys of the piano before him to a tune of Billy Joel.
The head snapped up in his direction. He met his eyes for a second, taking in the pained expression that shaped against his high cheekbones, brown eyes, and narrow nose.
He returned to facing the piano, not as if he didn’t notice, but as if he didn’t care.
It was like a game. He couldn’t just approach him. Too dull. He’d make him come to him. Watch his anger build and force his hand. If he was truly interesting, he’d fall for it. 
“Could you stop playing that song, please.”
See? Not boring.