House Het Ficathon -- "Fingering the Keys"
Okay, so here's my submission for the House Het Ficathon in 50thousandtearz's ElJay. :)
Summary: "Instantly, you remember: You left the door unlocked, which is unusual for you. You’re a person who likes to protect your possessions and like your possessions - some of them, anyway - to protect you. Now if only you could protect you from yourself, from your emotions and dirty habits."
Pairing: Wilson/Stacy
Rating: PG-13 for reference to cigarettes, alcohol, sex (more like infedelity), and mild swearing in the dialogue.
Word Count: 2,654 words.
Spoilers: Probably. Maybe 1.1 - "The Pilot" and 1.21 - "Three Stories". Very light, anyway.
Disclaimer: *laughs* Oh, that's a good one!
Other Important Information: The godly beta of this story is bemorechill, who deserves all the "thank you's" and cookies in the world, and it was written for animagiblender. My requirements:
- Pairing: Wilson/Stacy
-Three things included in the fanfiction: Must be Post-Infarction but Pre-Breakup, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort.
- Three things that cannot be included in the fanfiction: "PWP (porn with plot is acceptable though), a complete lack of House, um....rape? I dunno, I'm running out of limitations, so I might as well throw in 'midget porn'." <--- Oh, I had such a hard time getting around that last one. ;)
I hope I wrote to please. :)
"Fingering the Keys"
You approach the door and knock three times - just to let her know you’re there, just to let her know that it’s you - but you don’t hear anything to indicate that anyone is home or still breathing. Luckily, you know not to worry - although you continue to do so because it is in your nature as a caring person - because you do the same thing. With your job, where you save the diseased, dying, and distressed from what ails them, your house is the only place where you are able to control your pace, and you embrace that pleasure. Still, no one has answered. You place your hand on the knob and turn it, feeling the controlled and slow twist of the brass in your hand. It’s unlocked, and so you step inside. Funny. Why hadn’t you tried that in the first place?
Because you know Stacy cares for what she owns. Especially her Houses. Both of them.
You close the door behind you, hearing it click when it does. You begin moving towards the center of the house, putting your hand in your pocket as you go. You notice that the floor is immaculate in some places, unseen in others. Somehow, it reminds you of the anatomy of the Earth, its continents and oceans. The Asia of paper sits near the northeastern corner and flanking it on three sides, an oaken sea. You think it may be somewhat symbolic of the owners’ relationship with each other. And, sadistically, but somewhat sadly, you hope it is.
Suddenly, you hear a noise from in-front of you. You stopped walking, and all of this time you have been staring at the floor, trying to decipher any abstract meaning from what you have seen. But now you look up. She is standing directly ahead of you, leaning on the green-tinted wall, looking lethargic and slightly worn. You notice that her fingers have strands of tobacco embedded in the fingers while she notices yours shifting slightly in your pocket.
And all you can do is stare and softly stroke.
---
You watch the smoke rise up from the cigarette you have clasped between the two fingers on your right hand, the cool blue color of it consoling your frantic thoughts. Cure the mind and kill the rest. It sounds fair to you.
Right now you’re sitting in a cubbyhole next to your - no, our bedroom, you think, mine and his - and smoking away all chance of revelation on how to repair the relationship.
God, you hate that word. Relationship. You cringe, put out your cigarette, and search for the bottle of gin you have hidden in the back corner of the tiny room. And, as you reach for it, you notice the beam of light stretching across the dusty floor and stopping at the end wall. How ironic, you think, that that beam of light is like you. You went for five years with little to no trouble - sure, here and there you may have hit an extremely dirty spot, but doesn’t everyone? - and now here you are, your light, your happiness, your relationship - another cringe, and you pick up the bottle, untwisted the cap, and take a swill - stopped by a wall. Maybe the wall just hasn’t stopped your - you search for the word - “association” with him, but maybe it has caused your to crash and allow you to die a slow, painful death.
At this point, you sardonically reason, even Chinese Water Torture seems more appealing. You’ll take insanity over whatever this is any day.
Suddenly, you hear footsteps from out in the living room. You are going insane, and now you just have to wait for the voices in your head to come. Or maybe….
Instantly, you remember: You left the door unlocked, which is unusual for you. You’re a person who likes to protect your possessions and like your possessions - some of them, anyway - to protect you.
Now if only you could protect you from yourself, from your emotions and dirty habits.
Slowly, you push open the door, crawl out on your hands and knees, and think about how symbolism is rampant in your thoughts and actions today, about how your life is being reflected in the actions of other things as well, taking place before you like a traumatizing play. And, oh, how it pains you so.
You stand and allow your feet to gingerly carry you to the doorway. You can hear your light, quick breath, although inside you can hear the low, deep moans of the excitement flaring in your abdomen. Fear has always aroused you, yet you prefer to avoid living on the edge. But, still, you walk further, knowing your sense of better judgment just lingers back near the bedroom and the cubbyhole. You are now approaching the doorway, and when you reach it, you peer cautiously.
And there stands Wilson, staring at the ground, obviously entranced by something that you cannot see. You stand there for another moment, and decide that it is in your best interest to capture his attention. So, moving gracefully, you slid around the doorway and lean seductively against the green-tinted wall. You shift your weight, your elbow tapping the wall and producing a noise.
Quickly, his eyes move upward, taking in your appearance, but then they look down to your hand. You know you look slightly haggard, but you realize instantly that your sexual appeal is still shining through to him. His fingers are shifting in his pocket, and you feel yourself swallow. Thank God he thinks your hands are the choicest part of your body right now. But, even though the sight of him arouses you, - and it shouldn’t, because the fear has passed, and you’re still involved with someone - it also comforts you.
“Hi,” he simply says, though his voice is higher than usual.
“Hi.”
It’s an awkward moment. After being in that long silence, it feels strange to speak, like your throat is closed and the words are being torn and mangled on their way up to your lips.
“I…I just came to see how you were doing. I know things have been rough ever since - since after the…”
“I know, and I thank you. And it has been hard, too hard, actually. I mean, I just - he still doesn’t get it. I was his subpoena, damnit! I saved his life, and what do I get? Guilt. God, when life bites you in the ass, it bites hard.”
You chuckle a little, despite the tears in your eyes, and so does he. Both of your expressions are morose, along with your laughs. You let a deep groan escape you as you feel the tears vacate your eyes and dampen your cheeks. Your body has become limp and meek, flattening under the weight of depression. Wilson walks over to you, and you feel his arms grab hold to your petite figure; your hands have been lying at your side the whole time, and now you slid one onto his chest, letting it rest between your bodies. You feel him breathe inward - from shock or stimulation, you're not quite sure - as your other hand wraps around his back.
“Stacy, what are you…?” he manages to say before you quiet him. You begin to touch his ribs, letting your narrow fingers slide over them like they are piano keys. You don’t know why you are doing what you’re doing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe the cigarettes, or possibly repressed attraction. Whatever it may be, you like it and refuse to stop. “Just accepting the comfort of a…a friend.”
“Yes, well, this friend is married,” he states, but, even so, you can feel the erection forming through his trousers.
“But you don’t have to be for long,” you whisper in a husky voice. Your fingers slip downward to fondle with the edge of his trousers.
“True. But you have someone - someone who needs you. He may not realize it yet, but he…”
He stops, feeling your lips against his shaven cheek. You deeply inhale his scent and wonder why you never noticed any of these admiral qualities of his before now. “If someone needs me, I want that person to show it. And you are.”
He sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sigh. It’s more of a small but pleasurable moan, yet he persists in his argument, “Stacy, please…”
For a moment, you feel guilty again, guilty for what you doing to him, guilty for what you could do, guilty for what you’ve done. But you won’t stop. Not because you’re obstinate, not because you’re dominating.
You won’t stop because you can’t. You need to be consoled, and you fear he’s the only one who can do it right.
“Wilson, just once. Please. It doesn’t need to be long. I just want to forget everything, if only for any hour.”
He puts his head on your shoulder, almost bowing in submission. “Okay,” he says, and you can feel the streams of remorse shoot from him to you.
And you pass your better judgment on the way to the bedroom and watch it look away as you close the door.
---
You’re both lying naked next to each other. You know perfectly well how you came to be in your - still our, you think again although the chance of that changing is imminent - but, to add a comedic twirl to the situation, you’ll say it was because of hypnosis brought on by the entrancing pattern on Wilson’s red silk tie, which now lays at the end of your bed like a crimson, wilted rose.
And that’s what the relationship - you lean towards the draw on the table next your bed and open it, searching for the cigarettes you have hidden there; you’ve never smoked after sex, but that awful word just causes you to do awful things - you have, or had at this point, is like now. It has died, yet, even though you know that it’s over, you still don’t want to admit it. Why, though? Is denial really that wonderful, or is it because heartbreak is just so much more damaging? You know this is serious. You’ve just jeopardized almost five years of bliss for sixty minutes of sex.
Sixty divided by five is twelve, and that’s how many inches tall you feel right now. You won’t deny that you enjoyed every minute of what you and Wilson did, but you will deny that the composition of a relationship is ending while the symphony of an affair begins.
But your fingers are tired. Tired of playing the piano and thinking about which key to strike next in order to create a harmonious melody and to keep the melodious harmony synchronized with it. To keep that relationship moving smoothly, flawlessly.
And then you are obligated to keep your others affairs - personal and public, intimate and formal - in order, creating a base for everything, and your end result is a composition fit for anyone in your present state-of-mind. Melancholy with a twist, depression with a twirl, misery with a spin. “The Symphony of Sadness” you will call it, and you can almost hear the crowds jeering now. Is there even such a thing as pain in art form anymore?
Suddenly, you feel the tension of the mattress next to you lessen, and in another moment, you see Wilson, clad in a bathrobe, strolling out of the room, the robe moving about his ankles in such a way that with a second glance he looks almost godly.
You decide to follow him out of the room, donning a robe as well, feeling the cool air upon your legs. It’s funny, though, because you are walking numbly and yet you can feel every detail of your surroundings. And every imperfection on your body.
He has just walked through the doorway, the low sun falling upon his already-godly-looking body, creating even more of an illusion of divinity. It is strange, though, how a man who was just adulterous can look as pure and innocent and holy as he does. You, on the other hand, continue to look as you did earlier, but you feel all the better. Maybe Wilson’s “consolation” is taking effect. Sex, alcohol, and cigarettes, you think, the perfect cure for the perfect ruin. The perfect cocktail for the cunning adulterer.
You are now standing in the doorway, watching Wilson sit before the piano. He strokes the keys adoringly, just like someone else you know, someone you knew, someone you don’t want to know anymore. From your present knowledge, he doesn’t play the piano, but that doesn’t matter; you feel inclined to sit next to him on the bench all the same, so you do. He does not seem to mind, but rather, he seems to enjoy your presence, just as you enjoyed his earlier.
Both of you now look at the black and white keys, but you find deeper meaning in them. You connect them to your relationship - and the components of the relationship in general. You know relationships are like compositions of music, especially musical compositions played upon a piano. You know that each one is unique, whether or not it is harmonious as well. You know that what you have here with this man sitting next to you could possibly put an end to the ongoing composition you’ve played for five years and help you create a new piece to perform, a new piece to grace the ears of those who know you and those who love you - and even those who soon will have, at one time, loved you. You know that the black and white keys contrast each other, just as you and your soon-to-be-former lover do - or, rather, did. You had a balanced relationship, like the scales. You rarely hit a wrong key or accidentally accelerated the tempo, but now you have just let you hands run wildly over the keys - just as your hands ran wildly over Wilson’s back as you kissed.
All of a sudden, you feel Wilson leave your side again and hear him waltz into the bedroom and undress out his robe. But you continue to sit there. You refuse to move, move to something new waiting for you in the near distance. It’s not that you don’t want to do so, not at all; you’d be happy to end what you have now and move to something new and possibly better. It’s just that you’re not ready. You need to at least try and mend the broken composition, to tighten and loosen the wires to keep the piano in-tune, to sit upon the bench and rewrite the ending of your old song.
Unfortunately, though, you’re not patient enough to do so. You know it would just be easier to just close the lid on the piano and walk away, and you almost do. Just as you begin to stand, you see Wilson come through the doorway. He walks to where you have just sat again, bends, and kisses you lightly on the cheek. “Good luck,” he whispers into your auburn hair before walking to the door and shutting it behind him, keeping all of the secrets of your afternoon together locked inside. You turn to the piano and lay your fingers upon the keys.
You know that you’re just fingering the keys but not allowing them to produce a sound. You don’t want anymore commotion, any more noise. At this moment, all you want to hear and not hear is the sound of slender hands jingling keys in the lock. You want that composition of your former life to dance out the door to its own tune, yet you’re not ready to release everything just yet.
Then you remember the door is open and that everything from the afternoon is still inside. And you know that your former life is almost gone.
But not quite.
Summary: "Instantly, you remember: You left the door unlocked, which is unusual for you. You’re a person who likes to protect your possessions and like your possessions - some of them, anyway - to protect you. Now if only you could protect you from yourself, from your emotions and dirty habits."
Pairing: Wilson/Stacy
Rating: PG-13 for reference to cigarettes, alcohol, sex (more like infedelity), and mild swearing in the dialogue.
Word Count: 2,654 words.
Spoilers: Probably. Maybe 1.1 - "The Pilot" and 1.21 - "Three Stories". Very light, anyway.
Disclaimer: *laughs* Oh, that's a good one!
Other Important Information: The godly beta of this story is bemorechill, who deserves all the "thank you's" and cookies in the world, and it was written for animagiblender. My requirements:
- Pairing: Wilson/Stacy
-Three things included in the fanfiction: Must be Post-Infarction but Pre-Breakup, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort.
- Three things that cannot be included in the fanfiction: "PWP (porn with plot is acceptable though), a complete lack of House, um....rape? I dunno, I'm running out of limitations, so I might as well throw in 'midget porn'." <--- Oh, I had such a hard time getting around that last one. ;)
I hope I wrote to please. :)
"Fingering the Keys"
You approach the door and knock three times - just to let her know you’re there, just to let her know that it’s you - but you don’t hear anything to indicate that anyone is home or still breathing. Luckily, you know not to worry - although you continue to do so because it is in your nature as a caring person - because you do the same thing. With your job, where you save the diseased, dying, and distressed from what ails them, your house is the only place where you are able to control your pace, and you embrace that pleasure. Still, no one has answered. You place your hand on the knob and turn it, feeling the controlled and slow twist of the brass in your hand. It’s unlocked, and so you step inside. Funny. Why hadn’t you tried that in the first place?
Because you know Stacy cares for what she owns. Especially her Houses. Both of them.
You close the door behind you, hearing it click when it does. You begin moving towards the center of the house, putting your hand in your pocket as you go. You notice that the floor is immaculate in some places, unseen in others. Somehow, it reminds you of the anatomy of the Earth, its continents and oceans. The Asia of paper sits near the northeastern corner and flanking it on three sides, an oaken sea. You think it may be somewhat symbolic of the owners’ relationship with each other. And, sadistically, but somewhat sadly, you hope it is.
Suddenly, you hear a noise from in-front of you. You stopped walking, and all of this time you have been staring at the floor, trying to decipher any abstract meaning from what you have seen. But now you look up. She is standing directly ahead of you, leaning on the green-tinted wall, looking lethargic and slightly worn. You notice that her fingers have strands of tobacco embedded in the fingers while she notices yours shifting slightly in your pocket.
And all you can do is stare and softly stroke.
---
You watch the smoke rise up from the cigarette you have clasped between the two fingers on your right hand, the cool blue color of it consoling your frantic thoughts. Cure the mind and kill the rest. It sounds fair to you.
Right now you’re sitting in a cubbyhole next to your - no, our bedroom, you think, mine and his - and smoking away all chance of revelation on how to repair the relationship.
God, you hate that word. Relationship. You cringe, put out your cigarette, and search for the bottle of gin you have hidden in the back corner of the tiny room. And, as you reach for it, you notice the beam of light stretching across the dusty floor and stopping at the end wall. How ironic, you think, that that beam of light is like you. You went for five years with little to no trouble - sure, here and there you may have hit an extremely dirty spot, but doesn’t everyone? - and now here you are, your light, your happiness, your relationship - another cringe, and you pick up the bottle, untwisted the cap, and take a swill - stopped by a wall. Maybe the wall just hasn’t stopped your - you search for the word - “association” with him, but maybe it has caused your to crash and allow you to die a slow, painful death.
At this point, you sardonically reason, even Chinese Water Torture seems more appealing. You’ll take insanity over whatever this is any day.
Suddenly, you hear footsteps from out in the living room. You are going insane, and now you just have to wait for the voices in your head to come. Or maybe….
Instantly, you remember: You left the door unlocked, which is unusual for you. You’re a person who likes to protect your possessions and like your possessions - some of them, anyway - to protect you.
Now if only you could protect you from yourself, from your emotions and dirty habits.
Slowly, you push open the door, crawl out on your hands and knees, and think about how symbolism is rampant in your thoughts and actions today, about how your life is being reflected in the actions of other things as well, taking place before you like a traumatizing play. And, oh, how it pains you so.
You stand and allow your feet to gingerly carry you to the doorway. You can hear your light, quick breath, although inside you can hear the low, deep moans of the excitement flaring in your abdomen. Fear has always aroused you, yet you prefer to avoid living on the edge. But, still, you walk further, knowing your sense of better judgment just lingers back near the bedroom and the cubbyhole. You are now approaching the doorway, and when you reach it, you peer cautiously.
And there stands Wilson, staring at the ground, obviously entranced by something that you cannot see. You stand there for another moment, and decide that it is in your best interest to capture his attention. So, moving gracefully, you slid around the doorway and lean seductively against the green-tinted wall. You shift your weight, your elbow tapping the wall and producing a noise.
Quickly, his eyes move upward, taking in your appearance, but then they look down to your hand. You know you look slightly haggard, but you realize instantly that your sexual appeal is still shining through to him. His fingers are shifting in his pocket, and you feel yourself swallow. Thank God he thinks your hands are the choicest part of your body right now. But, even though the sight of him arouses you, - and it shouldn’t, because the fear has passed, and you’re still involved with someone - it also comforts you.
“Hi,” he simply says, though his voice is higher than usual.
“Hi.”
It’s an awkward moment. After being in that long silence, it feels strange to speak, like your throat is closed and the words are being torn and mangled on their way up to your lips.
“I…I just came to see how you were doing. I know things have been rough ever since - since after the…”
“I know, and I thank you. And it has been hard, too hard, actually. I mean, I just - he still doesn’t get it. I was his subpoena, damnit! I saved his life, and what do I get? Guilt. God, when life bites you in the ass, it bites hard.”
You chuckle a little, despite the tears in your eyes, and so does he. Both of your expressions are morose, along with your laughs. You let a deep groan escape you as you feel the tears vacate your eyes and dampen your cheeks. Your body has become limp and meek, flattening under the weight of depression. Wilson walks over to you, and you feel his arms grab hold to your petite figure; your hands have been lying at your side the whole time, and now you slid one onto his chest, letting it rest between your bodies. You feel him breathe inward - from shock or stimulation, you're not quite sure - as your other hand wraps around his back.
“Stacy, what are you…?” he manages to say before you quiet him. You begin to touch his ribs, letting your narrow fingers slide over them like they are piano keys. You don’t know why you are doing what you’re doing. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe the cigarettes, or possibly repressed attraction. Whatever it may be, you like it and refuse to stop. “Just accepting the comfort of a…a friend.”
“Yes, well, this friend is married,” he states, but, even so, you can feel the erection forming through his trousers.
“But you don’t have to be for long,” you whisper in a husky voice. Your fingers slip downward to fondle with the edge of his trousers.
“True. But you have someone - someone who needs you. He may not realize it yet, but he…”
He stops, feeling your lips against his shaven cheek. You deeply inhale his scent and wonder why you never noticed any of these admiral qualities of his before now. “If someone needs me, I want that person to show it. And you are.”
He sighs, but it’s not an exasperated sigh. It’s more of a small but pleasurable moan, yet he persists in his argument, “Stacy, please…”
For a moment, you feel guilty again, guilty for what you doing to him, guilty for what you could do, guilty for what you’ve done. But you won’t stop. Not because you’re obstinate, not because you’re dominating.
You won’t stop because you can’t. You need to be consoled, and you fear he’s the only one who can do it right.
“Wilson, just once. Please. It doesn’t need to be long. I just want to forget everything, if only for any hour.”
He puts his head on your shoulder, almost bowing in submission. “Okay,” he says, and you can feel the streams of remorse shoot from him to you.
And you pass your better judgment on the way to the bedroom and watch it look away as you close the door.
---
You’re both lying naked next to each other. You know perfectly well how you came to be in your - still our, you think again although the chance of that changing is imminent - but, to add a comedic twirl to the situation, you’ll say it was because of hypnosis brought on by the entrancing pattern on Wilson’s red silk tie, which now lays at the end of your bed like a crimson, wilted rose.
And that’s what the relationship - you lean towards the draw on the table next your bed and open it, searching for the cigarettes you have hidden there; you’ve never smoked after sex, but that awful word just causes you to do awful things - you have, or had at this point, is like now. It has died, yet, even though you know that it’s over, you still don’t want to admit it. Why, though? Is denial really that wonderful, or is it because heartbreak is just so much more damaging? You know this is serious. You’ve just jeopardized almost five years of bliss for sixty minutes of sex.
Sixty divided by five is twelve, and that’s how many inches tall you feel right now. You won’t deny that you enjoyed every minute of what you and Wilson did, but you will deny that the composition of a relationship is ending while the symphony of an affair begins.
But your fingers are tired. Tired of playing the piano and thinking about which key to strike next in order to create a harmonious melody and to keep the melodious harmony synchronized with it. To keep that relationship moving smoothly, flawlessly.
And then you are obligated to keep your others affairs - personal and public, intimate and formal - in order, creating a base for everything, and your end result is a composition fit for anyone in your present state-of-mind. Melancholy with a twist, depression with a twirl, misery with a spin. “The Symphony of Sadness” you will call it, and you can almost hear the crowds jeering now. Is there even such a thing as pain in art form anymore?
Suddenly, you feel the tension of the mattress next to you lessen, and in another moment, you see Wilson, clad in a bathrobe, strolling out of the room, the robe moving about his ankles in such a way that with a second glance he looks almost godly.
You decide to follow him out of the room, donning a robe as well, feeling the cool air upon your legs. It’s funny, though, because you are walking numbly and yet you can feel every detail of your surroundings. And every imperfection on your body.
He has just walked through the doorway, the low sun falling upon his already-godly-looking body, creating even more of an illusion of divinity. It is strange, though, how a man who was just adulterous can look as pure and innocent and holy as he does. You, on the other hand, continue to look as you did earlier, but you feel all the better. Maybe Wilson’s “consolation” is taking effect. Sex, alcohol, and cigarettes, you think, the perfect cure for the perfect ruin. The perfect cocktail for the cunning adulterer.
You are now standing in the doorway, watching Wilson sit before the piano. He strokes the keys adoringly, just like someone else you know, someone you knew, someone you don’t want to know anymore. From your present knowledge, he doesn’t play the piano, but that doesn’t matter; you feel inclined to sit next to him on the bench all the same, so you do. He does not seem to mind, but rather, he seems to enjoy your presence, just as you enjoyed his earlier.
Both of you now look at the black and white keys, but you find deeper meaning in them. You connect them to your relationship - and the components of the relationship in general. You know relationships are like compositions of music, especially musical compositions played upon a piano. You know that each one is unique, whether or not it is harmonious as well. You know that what you have here with this man sitting next to you could possibly put an end to the ongoing composition you’ve played for five years and help you create a new piece to perform, a new piece to grace the ears of those who know you and those who love you - and even those who soon will have, at one time, loved you. You know that the black and white keys contrast each other, just as you and your soon-to-be-former lover do - or, rather, did. You had a balanced relationship, like the scales. You rarely hit a wrong key or accidentally accelerated the tempo, but now you have just let you hands run wildly over the keys - just as your hands ran wildly over Wilson’s back as you kissed.
All of a sudden, you feel Wilson leave your side again and hear him waltz into the bedroom and undress out his robe. But you continue to sit there. You refuse to move, move to something new waiting for you in the near distance. It’s not that you don’t want to do so, not at all; you’d be happy to end what you have now and move to something new and possibly better. It’s just that you’re not ready. You need to at least try and mend the broken composition, to tighten and loosen the wires to keep the piano in-tune, to sit upon the bench and rewrite the ending of your old song.
Unfortunately, though, you’re not patient enough to do so. You know it would just be easier to just close the lid on the piano and walk away, and you almost do. Just as you begin to stand, you see Wilson come through the doorway. He walks to where you have just sat again, bends, and kisses you lightly on the cheek. “Good luck,” he whispers into your auburn hair before walking to the door and shutting it behind him, keeping all of the secrets of your afternoon together locked inside. You turn to the piano and lay your fingers upon the keys.
You know that you’re just fingering the keys but not allowing them to produce a sound. You don’t want anymore commotion, any more noise. At this moment, all you want to hear and not hear is the sound of slender hands jingling keys in the lock. You want that composition of your former life to dance out the door to its own tune, yet you’re not ready to release everything just yet.
Then you remember the door is open and that everything from the afternoon is still inside. And you know that your former life is almost gone.
But not quite.