Piano

I sit down at my kind piano, I usher out some notes. Maybe I tip over my feet once or twice but they all get to their approximate seats. I am harsh but they are forgiving. A mirror hangs eye level, my hair, my flinching eyes. Maybe I look at myself too much.

The window is open, I hear the neighbors fighting. Some indiscernible he said she said I said you said. I score, rise and fall with them, stop caring about the notes on the page and start playing the right ones. Chords, octaves, staccatos, pedal, crescendo, the long gradual ritardando. And I come to a complete silence and hear nothing through the window.

The doorbell rings. My fingers rest lightly on the black keys. I answer the door. The next door neighbors stand on my doorstep. They're older than I remember, they fight like they're in the prime of youth, when love is still fused with passion. They don't say anything and neither do I. They don't look angry or happy, but satisfied, at peace. They have a piano in their house, she said, but they never play it. It hasn't been played in years. Would I like to come over and play it sometime, he asks me. Sure, I say, that would be nice.

They smile softly and walk back. He takes her hand in his. For a moment I stand with the door open, listening to their footsteps, and the small trickle of a laugh.