“So contribute.”
Emma felt anger spreading into every place hunger had occupied.
Richard leaned closer.
“Unless you don't actually have any useful skills.”
She said nothing.
He smiled.
“There’s a fast-food restaurant two blocks away.”
“Perhaps they'll be less selective.”
A man near the window looked down at his plate.
A woman whispered:
“That's enough.”
Richard heard.
He ignored her.
Emma stared at the piano.
Eight months.
She had not played for eight months.
The last keyboard she owned had been sold for one hundred eighty dollars.
Rent.
One week.
After that, music existed only in memory.
Sometimes Emma moved her fingers against her thigh while riding the subway.
Scales.
Arpeggios.
Fragments.
Her hands remembered even when everything else seemed determined to forget.
Richard spoke again.
“Well?”
Emma looked at him.
“I’ll play.”
Something changed in his smile.
Triumph.
He believed she had accepted his rules.
Emma added:
“But when I start, you listen.”
Richard laughed.
“I think everyone will.”
Emma removed her backpack.
Placed it beside the piano.
The walk across the restaurant felt longer than any stage entrance she remembered.
Whispers followed.
“Who is she?”
“She said she could play.”
“This is horrible.”
“Someone’s recording.”
“Do you think she actually can?”
Emma reached the bench.
Her hand touched the polished edge of the Steinway.
She almost recoiled.
The surface was cool.
Perfect.
Familiar.
For one dangerous second, grief nearly broke her.
Her father had taught her how to listen for resonance.
Her mother had corrected posture by lightly touching Emma between the shoulder blades.
Elena used to say:
“You don't attack a piano.”
“You invite it to tell the truth.”
Emma’s eyes burned.
Richard approached.
“My lunch is getting cold.”
Several people laughed nervously.
Emma adjusted the bench.
Muscle memory.
Distance.
Height.
Posture.
She placed her hands in her lap.
Richard looked toward the diners.
“Perhaps something simple.”
Emma looked up.
“Simple?”
“Yes.”
“For your skill level.”
“What do you think my skill level is?”
Richard glanced toward her shoes.
“That remains to be discovered.”
She nodded once.
Then:
“Chopin.”
Richard’s smile changed slightly.
“What?”
“Étude Opus Twenty-Five, Number Eleven.”
Silence began forming around them.
Emma continued:
“Winter Wind.”
Someone near the windows whispered:
“Oh.”
Richard had enough cultural education to recognize the name.
His eyebrows moved.
“Ambitious.”
Emma placed her hands above the keys.
“I know.”
“Perhaps you should choose something more accessible.”
She looked at him.
For the first time that afternoon, Emma smiled.
Not warmly.
“I thought you wanted me to prove something.”
A few diners reacted.
Richard’s jaw tightened.
“Play.”
Emma turned toward the keyboard.
She closed her eyes.