Gymnopédie No.1
She came to the Borscht on a weekly basis now.
He noticed her from the very first time she appeared, of course—and every other time after that.
Every Sunday night she'd be seated at a small table beside the brick fireplace, half the room away. The years had not been rough on her; she was still ever the delicate flower, the gentle shrine maiden. Even if she was not happy—not once did he see the full smile she would smile at him with, back in the days—she was calm, serene. But she always dined alone.
She was there for him.
He was not going to speak to her. He'd sworn he would keep her out of the tangled web he'd woven, and that meant keeping her out of his life. It was now six years after they'd tried dating again and he'd broken it off, and she was still waiting.
She never tried to approach him herself, never tried to catch him when he was stuck at the piano and obligated to play some song out for some pushy diner. If she had, he wasn't all that sure what his response would be—he'd charted out the fastest way he could make it out of the room depending on where she was standing, but she'd never forced him to carry out that route.
And so it was on that night, with no loudmouthed patron's insistence, that he'd turned towards the piano keys by himself. He'd placed his fingers on the keys and played—shakily at first, but gradually smoother as his muscles remembered the pattern—the song she'd taught him long ago, when he'd first gotten the job as a pianist and was still halfway trying to be a competent one. It was the only song he really could play with any ounce of skill. Their song.
A few patrons stopped their chatter just to observe the phenomenon. After he finished, one or two even clapped—most seemed stunned into silence. They'd certainly never witness such an event again.
And she? When he figured it was safe enough to steal a look, he saw her looking down at her table, smiling gently. If there were tears in her eyes he was too far to spot them.
She hadn't made the request, but he'd played it for her. It wasn't what she wanted—it wasn't what he wanted—but it would have to do.