Wrapped in an expansive, though inadequate, crocheted navy
scarf and a pea coat with its anchor-inscribed buttons, I both watch his
fingers play across the ivories and listen to his mantic melodies, muted by branches
of the stark, leafless northern red oak.
I remember when we
sat here, our knees touching as the summer sun set. Only now do I understand
that neither we together nor each of us individually were broken. Funny how
points in time taken discretely seem disjointed, as if the chronology is all
wrong, but how those same points in time strung along a continuum somehow make
sense.
I rise, tip the pianist, and walk home alone.
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