Like in O. Henry's stories

Like the plucking
of the string in
a violin,
it plays through me.
And you are the reed
through which
I play mine part
in the opera.
And the opera,
the play,
the staging,
its magnum
even as we sit,
in silence,
opposite to each other,
in a semi dark room,
with the sun low outside,
and the rain,incessant,
like in one of those
O Henry's stories,
that both of us
have read.