Art With Liquor

Part Two

When you come home to find a piano intruding on your tiny living room, you think maybe he's nuts. Two weeks out of Boston and your sixth floor apartment is suddenly as crowded as that cramped pub. Mentioning the childhood passion shouldn't have prompted such an extravagant surprise. Still, it sits in the room's center, a diva of glossy black and despite the irritation of invaded space, your fingers itch. The keys ask for an introduction, a first dance. The silence of the room reminds you of all that it means to live alone. And with manic urgency you want to play. But not without an audience.

When he arrives equally unannounced, the sheepish grin is noted just before the lips greet you most unprofessionally. You want to tell him you can't thank him properly when he's stealing your oxygen, but the idea of suffocating this way has merit. The chilled wine grazes your leg and in the next moment, he steers you to the settee. Then the fear bounces off the claw-footed shiny behemoth. Nothing a few gulps of wine won't disguise. Fingers haven't caressed beauty from ivory since that cheap music store keyboard five years ago. And those chords had been harsh, grating the ear like your husband's excuses. He wasn't all that you'd separated from that year. Even scales, the joy of beginners, weighed unevenly and you sold your music. Until this man brought heavy lacquered wood back into your home. But you still think he's nuts, though you harbor the giggle-inducing image of him carrying the thing up six flights on his back. Poor baby might need a massage.

When you sit on the bench, it's like being seated before the mantle of a master with no clue how to forge a worthy masterpiece. Out of practice, you apologize before the first note is even offered. It would help to pick a song, but that's being predictable and he's already decimated that tactic. Like the gift's appearance, you want to hand him spontaneity. The initial note is sharp but finds a mate, then another and another. It's all make-believe; an imaginary song for an imaginary lover. You make it up as you go and he's impressed. Maybe that's not a bad way to conduct a relationship. Improvise. It's rough but sweet; a musical pineapple for body and soul, organic and wholesome in its satisfaction.

When you stop and his hands find your shoulder, wholesome is the last thing you crave. There's a thought to christening the new furniture piece and it must have shown because he's turning you sideways and laying your spine full against the length of the upholstered bench. And he's got you making a thoroughly different sort of music. Later the favor is returned and you hum that particular song perfectly.

When you wake alone, you consider pretending to be offended. The morning is Disney caliber with its birdsong and raindrops. It's all soft and tender and everything he wasn't last night. You look at your fingers in the hazy light, pondering their newly discovered aphrodisiac qualities. The pillow he'd used carries his scent and maintains a slight indent and you inspect it for blond hairs. Upon the feathery surface you finger a makeshift version of the improvised song, tapping the scent into the core as if ensuring it will stay where he did not. The tune, however hollow it rings in your head, becomes synonymous with a sexy pineapple.

When you rise and stroke the piano's mirrowed cover, you realize there are condensation rings from last night's wine glasses marring the finish. Circles etch a reminder of the night, of progress started in crowds and secured in quiet. And though a cloth is within reach, the rings are allowed to remain, marking the night he said he loved you.