For the first couple of minutes we're on Skype, we just smile at each other. There's really nothing to say that can't be better said with a smile.
I read a book that rips open old scars.
Already the F-sharp has a sour buzz. It will never be fully in tune, but will instead hover over the landscape of the Moonlight Sonata like a mosquito.
I spend too much time worrying that something will go wrong. It's exhausting.
Bags of dark chocolate in a green barrel. A faint chocolatey smell tickling my nose as I stand in line.
They look smaller. Time has rubbed away at them.
The inside of the piano is magnificent: faded gold, stained wood, an eagle bearing a flag in the dark. Strings, knobs, and hammers, a soundboard that's cracked. It's a piano with character, stubbornly and majestically out-of-tune.