Gerard's hands move across the piano sheepishly. Faintly, his fingers feel the keys as they fumble around a melody. Behind him the moon shines in from an open window and the keys grow sallow. Thoughts come to him, of Maria, of their time in French Polynesia. In his memory he can see the house they stayed in, feel the warmth of the sun on the patio overlooking the ocean, taste the wine they drank. Then, he is aware of silence. Once again he pictures Maria. She is the sled dog tugging at his thoughts, steering him where he wishes not to go. A false note breaks his concentration. In the dark it is piercing, sharp as glass. He winces. The silence hides nothing; forgives even less.
He stares out across the room, tracing the thin, pale shadow of the trespassing moon. It stretches across his floor and falls on a silver spoon beside a cup of cold tea. Hours have passed since he sat at the bench. The night is beginning to take on a frustrated tone. The air seems to perspire, become humid.
Outside there is the sound of crickets. Summer gently whispers.
No comments:
Post a Comment