My cat friend led me out onto the street again and to a piano. An old spinet with worn and well-loved edges. It smelled of lemon cleaning products, and the seat was covered with an old, crocheted blanket, folded and faded. On top was a little Cafecito cup, already drunk, and making the air smell earthy and sweet with the memory of it. I pulled out the seat and opened the fall. The smell of the yellowed, artificial ivory was overpowering, and it paralyzed me with something before I regained my posture. I tapped these new hands on a few keys, but the notes weren’t right. My strokes were clumsy, and I realized I didn’t know how to play. These hands had played before, though they refused to acknowledge it.
Someone else had left their hands on the top board tied up. These were old hands, bent
