Chords

The keys harmonize together. She lifts her foot off the pedal and with it a click resets the keyboard. The sound lingers in the air like the last sip of gin sitting stagnant in the V of your martini glass. Warm with just a touch of briny juice, it leaves behind a glow on your cheeks. The keys pick up a melody again, this time a familiar song. It sounds like the seasons. Your drink returns with fresh olives and thin shaves of ice that float like mirrors reflecting like those in a carnival fun house. The piano gestures softly, inviting you into autumn where leaves change color and gently fall on front lawns or side walks to be raked up, crunched under a shoe, rolled around in. You sip. The keys run on and you almost smell the spring air mixed with leather jackets and tweed coats that have been pulled out of hallway closets to replace winter parkas. You pick up the skewer that secures your boozy olives. Popping one into you mouth, you close your eyes and hear a window open, airing out winter. The paint from the pane pealing away from the window sill. With a sip to wash it down, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirrors floating on the surface. The keys slur through brown leaves, tulip sprouts, ocean waves, snow drifts. You look down, far into your glass. Nothing reflects back anymore but the thought of a season, the smell of it in the air as you sip the end of your drink. She lifts her foot off the pedal resetting the chords as you wait for your glass to return so you can catch a glimpse of your own reflection.

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