Yellow

Florence stares at the piano’s yellowed keys. It reminds her of a chamomile tea bag that has soaked through a blank piece of paper, seeping towards the corners, greedily lapping up the pristine spaces. The piano smells like dust, looks like dust – the chair creaks when she sits on it, the music stand has a screw or two missing. There’s even cracks on the brown wood.

It’s no surprise. When did she last touch it?

Was it when they were here?

She traces her finger on the keys, then dares to press into a note. C. The tone colour that emerges is brittle, flat. She presses the note again. Nothing changes.

Sighing, she turns her attention to the stray piece of paper on the lid of the instrument. It’s littered in stray notes. And yellow. The handwriting isn’t hers – it’s a messy scrawl, small and illegible like chicken scratch. Hastily written in the corner are the words, 'For Florence.' She looks at the notes and places it on the music stand. Then, her hands slowly descend onto the brittle keys, lightly pressing into them. It’s out of tune.

Maybe, she thinks, maybe if I close my eyes it won’t be.

So she closes them and pretends that she’s not alone, playing the piece written for her, that they are sitting next to her, laughing at her mistakes and inability to sight-read. That they are still here, with her.

“I’ll see you there,” they had said, as they opened the door with a flourish, their skirt swishing around their knees. A month later, she had seen them with a glittering ring on their finger and a bouquet in their hands. And the month after that, they had had their last lesson.

“Charles wants children. So do I – it’s always been my dream.” They had apologetically placed their hand on her shoulder and patted her hair.

“You’ll understand, won’t you, Florence?” They sent her a sweet smile. No, she thought. I won’t understand. She had glanced at them, wishing her thoughts were obvious. Don’t go, she had wanted to say. But instead, what came out was a meek nod and the words:

“I’ll see you around.”

They had wrapped her in a tight embrace, their lavender perfume clinging onto her skin. They had smiled, the corners of their eyes crinkling. And they had left.

A wrong note brings her out of her reverie. She focuses on the scrawled ink and closes her eyes, but a flurry of mistakes forces her to stop. Of course, when she opens her eyes again, she’s greeted with her hands – wrinkled and gnarled – and the sound of out-of-tune music layered over silence. And as she stares at the music and the words, 'From Clara,' a familiar sensation tugs at her heart. Her chest is heaving up and down. Her eyes sting. Though anchored to the keys, it still feels like she’s floating away.

Through her blurred vision, she stares at the yellowed keys.

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