The Pianist Her and I were like a badly-tuned piano; only ever in harmony at unusual times. Still, I wanted to know how to play that song even if I never quite knew why she was willing to teach it to me.

There was a night when we spoke on the telephone, when she set the receiver down on her mother’s piano and played, beautifully, showing a dexterity I had not previously known. It was the memory of this night that came to mind when I was driving home years later with a beginner’s keyboard in my back seat. We hadn’t been in each other’s company in a long time; not since we’d spent entire nights believing we might actually be able to fall asleep near one another.

I asked her to show me how to play. Where to put my fingers, how to move them up and down the long row of black and white. I learned that despite the many different sounds that a piano can make, it’s nothing more than the same few notes over and over. They only sound different depending on when they’re played. And that’s all we ever were, the same note repeated. Neither of us had changed in the time we were apart, neither of us had grown. We were still slaves to the same irrational lust. All we ever needed was for our song to peak and finish. Instead, all we heard was a slow fade to silence, and the crescendo was all in the first few beats.  ¶ 7:52 AM