She’d never seen him play, but the piano didn’t seem unused. There was no dust o

She’d never seen him play, but the piano didn’t seem unused. There was no dust on the cover, no sombre neglect hanging over it like a shroud, the months of disuse making the instrument sit a little lower on the floor, retreat a little further into the darkness of the room.

Instead it occupied its space comfortable, assured in its relevance to the room, and to the house. It was a part of his life, but a part that she hadn’t been privy to. She imagined him as a Machiavellian villain, hunched over the keys in a tophat and tails, hammering at the keys with claw-like hands while the moon hung pregnant in the sky. It might explain the delicate plink of the strings being absent from their relationship.

Once, after he was half asleep in post coital bliss, she’d wandered over to it, lifted the guard and pressed the middle C. The note had rung out true, impeccably tuned, and an illicit thrill ran down her spine. She felt as though she had cracked open a diary, was reading inner thoughts that had always meant to be secret. F sharp sauntered out of the body of the piano, and she wandered her fingers up the scale. He stirred in the bed.

“Leave it alone, love. It’s not for you.” His voice was obscured by the pillow, but his tone was clear enough.

“Why?” She didn’t seem angry, or upset. Just curious.

“How would you feel if your toaster started making coffee? I don’t want my instruments playing one another.” His voice started to break into laughter at the end of that, and she was already running to the bed to slam her fists against his back in playful anger.

“You bastard!” She bit down into his shoulder, before he pressed a large hand against her forehead, pushing her away. 

“But love, I play you so very, very well.” His smirk threatened to spread the circumference of his head, the upper half toppling off.

She just huffed and pouted, and smiled just a little.