She listens as he plays the piano in the living room downstairs – a peculiar tune, one she doesn’t know. She gets out of bed and goes to join him, to finally say the thing.
The room is dark, the piano draped in red velvet. She hears it still, the odd tune.
She walks forward. He is there, on the sofa with pillow and blanket, asleep. She watches him, listening to the tune, but trying now to imagine it as it ought to be. The music stops. His eyes open.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“Playing the piano,” he answers.