Five quick steps past the door see him at his bench, well worn from years of use.
Another two place him upon it, and his fingers on the keys.
Tonight, he doesn't want to think. Doesn't want to think or feel or know anything but the music.
He starts with a pause and a few hesitant notes ringing in his ears. He decides on a slow piece, one he's known so long he's forgotten the (rather amateur) composer's name, and begins.
It only takes till the chorus before he starts thinking again. Thinking about things he would rather leave alone and in the past.
Things that surely didn't matter anymore, no matter the hurt in his chest.
He catches himself raising the tempo far above its normal pace and stops, his fingers still flying and making more noise than strictly necessary.
He chooses a different melody, one of his own he still hasn't finished yet, and starts again, forcing his attention to the notes. He gets through half before his mind wanders again. Hands slam harshly against the keyboard this time, the dischordant notes making him wince, but he doesn't care and starts on another piece.
It is loud and fast and he is missing more notes than he could care to count, hunched over the bench gritting his teeth together in order not to think.
He finishes the song quickly and begins another, playing louder and louder until he is sure he cannot hear himself think, his hands all but slamming into the keys.
After a while, he finally starts to calm, his fingers slowing and his back slumping over the keyboard. He is tired, but finishes the Mozart piece with a final, slow flourish. A sigh breathes life into him again and he stands.
Seven steps lead him out the door and into the hall.
He doesn't bother counting the steps to his kitchen.
