I wish I could produce sound like that.

Like what? He gulps at his beer.

You can’t hear that? Straightened back, she closes her eyes, and as her head tilts back, his eyes follow the shape of her jaw, neck, shoulders. So elegant, like rain in summer.

Oh, the piano?

Left index finger, picking at right thumb. A staccato, three breaths in succession. Exhale. Yes.

His chair scrapes against the tiles as he shifts and turns to look.

Sounds like elevator music to me.

Teeth on teeth. Right index finger, picking at left thumb.

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