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The Piano Has Its Way

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The time is almost five o’clock. I sit perched upon the colonnade; my eyes are on the piano that stands across the room. The white keys gleam in anticipation while the black keys seem to melt into its slick surface, until I catch their shine out of the corner of my eye. They seem to be awaiting something. I’m not sure I want to know what they’re waiting for. It might have something to do with me.


My senses heighten. I hear a voice call out to me from the next room. It is five o’clock now, and I can’t put it off any longer: the consequences could be dire. Slowly, slowly, I slide off the colonnade. My legs dangle, toes touching the carpet, for just a moment before the rest of my body catches up. My resolve is strong, but my heart is despairing. I’m not ready for this. I gather my courage and take the first step forward.


Right step, left step, heart to heart, each move brings me closer to the piano. I hear that voice again, pushing me to begin. My heart is racing as my hand reaches forward, seemingly disengaged from my body, and roughly caresses the keys. The piano seems to rumble with hunger, and I am no longer afraid but resigned. Day in and day out, five o’clock sharp -- the piano has its way.





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