Christina wouldn't stop playing until her name could be written beside Beethoven's. That's what she had concluded, and the goal that she was working toward, bit by bit, as her nimble, delicate fingers played the last five notes of tonight's concert. It would delight the girl to no end to call tonight's performance a perfect one, but she had missed a key tonight. Even had she not missed that one pesky key, there would always be room for improvement, no matter how flawless her performance was, or how hailed by fans and critics alike she was.
With an inaudible sigh, Christina rose from her stool as the applause began. Bowing to her audience, she curtly thanked them all for coming to see the show, and voiced her desire for their continued support. It was part of the script. Of course, the words weren't false (how could she go down into the books if she was a petty person who couldn't even offer a proper thank you?), but they weren't words that the girl would've chosen to speak herself.
It was yet another half hour of "thank you"s and "good work"s and "bye"s that she had to endure before she was able to leave to stadium. As per the norm, there were approximately ten co-workers who offered to give the girl a ride home tonight as well, though they certainly had forgotten the fact that she had driven herself here and therefore had her own car to get back to the hotel tonight. Of course, they insisted, she could always get it towed back to the hotel, but she didn't care for a service such as that.
She was a normal woman who was particularly skilled at tapping her fingers, she concluded as she set her sights on her car.