Wild Onions

The piano sat upright against the wall opposite the window, layered under a thick blanket of dust in the house evacuated because of the bombs. The man pulled out the padded bench in front of it and sat slowly, lifting the cover and running his hands along the keys. They shone like beetles in the dim light. He liked pianos. They were usually old and musty, and they sounded better than people. His fingers found their place on the left side and struck a resounding D. The sound rolled through the house. It was good. He reached further down and played an E, letting his fingers span an octave. The sound was rich and muddy, and it rumbled in the brown wood. On the right he touched the highest E and listened to its clear wooden plink. It sounded like raindrops on the roof of the house in which he grew up. He sighed and let his back bend. It had been a long time since he had touched a piano. He played the D again because he could not decide what else to play. Then he hit it again, hard...

I sit and I watch a beetle crawl his way up the window in the library. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it. A stack of books sits beside me, unread.