Fingers encased in thin, white plastic raced across the keys, doling out a certain kind of digital doom with glee.
A blackboard is an example of one of life’s greatest lessons. Once words have been put out there, they can’t be fully erased again.
The memory was a happy one, but faded at the edges. Like a photograph that had been handled a few too many times.
She’d thought the chess set was relatively normal, even if the style was a bit cheekier than she was used to.
The study was a fairly straightforward one: take a bunch of people who had never done psychotropic drugs and see how they fared with this new pharmaceutical for pain.
No matter how many pianos those fingers touched nor how many rooms had the music they made echoing from their walls, the little church where they'd first played in public always had the best acoustics.
I stare at the photo for a while, trying to form words as its taker waits patiently. "I like the contrast of the colors."
The piano called to her from the corner in those first new and lonely days, but she hadn't really felt like playing since he'd passed.
She had an odd sense of vulnerability about her despite the bold prints and towering shoes.
No matter how many songs had debuted at the top of the charts, no matter how many sold-out concerts he had, that moment when he first stepped up to the mic to record a new song was hard.
She'd told me the day I bought the damn thing, and every day since, how ill-suited the car was for this climate.