Her face twists into something inscrutable. Part sympathy, part sadness. “Don’t drink too much. No problem can be solved at the bottom of a bottle. I learned that the hard way.” She fidgets with her hands in front of her waist before she lets them fall and turns toward the door. “I feel a little tired. I’d better go lie down.”
Something in her slow shuffle toward the exit gives me pause, though.
Does she want me to stop her? For a moment, I’m not so sure. Her eyes flicker over me, and then they land on the piano. She slides her fingertips over the gleaming black surface and then pulls back.
“Sometimes, when he played, he seemed like a different person,” she whispers. “Same as you.”
“Is that what you’re hoping for?” I ask. “A different person?”
“I don’t know what I’m hoping for,” she r
