xquicite

she left the window open and the rain got into the piano. martin found it the next morning, the hammers dark with water, and said nothing. “i didn’t ask you to fix it,” lena said from the doorway, pulling her coat on inside out. he noticed the coat but let her go. the door closed and the house got quieter than it should have. she turned the key twice, the way her mother always had, as if the door might forget to lock if you only asked it once. she walked to ruth’s in the rain, not fast, not slow, the way you walk when you don’t mind getting wet. she turned the key twice, the way her mother always had, though the lock only needed once. ruth’s hallway smelled like cumin and old coats, and lena stood in it a moment longer than she needed to. ruth was already pouring when lena sat down. somewhere between the second and third glass, lena had started telling ruth the truth. she held the glass up to the window and the light came through it wrong, the way light does when it’s trying to show you something you already know. ruth watched her do it and waited. she told ruth about the piano, about the window, about how none of it was really about the piano. ruth poured another glass and said, “so leave him.” “it’s not that kind of story,” lena said, looking at her hands. she set the glass down too carefully, the way people do when they’re trying not to show that their hands are shaking. ruth refilled it anyway. they sat with it for a while, the rain going thin against ruth’s window. their dog had been dead for three years but lena and martin still bought the same brand of food by accident, every time. the cans sat in a row under the sink, labels facing out, the way lena liked things. martin never mentioned the cans either. he kept the receipt in his wallet for months, not because he needed it, but because her handwriting was on the back. it said eggs, milk, call your mother — and he could hear her voice in every word. he folded the receipt back into his wallet and turned off the kitchen light. the next morning, lena held her mug up to the kitchen window and the light came through it wrong, the way light does when it’s already shown you once and you didn’t look. martin was already in the kitchen, standing where the dog used to wait, holding two mugs like he’d forgotten which one was hers. he handed her the blue one. she took it without checking. it was the right one. she held the coffee with both hands, not because it was cold, but because she needed something to hold. martin saw her hands and looked away, the way you do when you’ve accidentally seen something private. she turned the cup slowly in her hands, not drinking, just holding the warmth of something that wouldn’t last. outside, the piano sat quiet with its ruined hammers, and neither of them mentioned it. lena washed the blue mug and set it next to his, and that was as close as they came. a week later she was back at ruth’s, and she held the glass up to the window and the light came through it wrong, the way light does when it’s given up trying to tell you something new. “you do that every time,” ruth said, and lena put the glass down like she’d been caught. “i don’t know what i’m looking for,” lena said. after a moment, she turned the glass slowly on the table, watching the wine catch light, and said nothing, which for once felt like enough. ruth closed the bottle and put it away, which meant she was staying. when she got home, she held the coffee with both hands like it was the last warm thing in the world, and maybe it was, and he sat across from her trying to remember what he’d been about to say before her face did that. he held the glass up to the light like he was checking for cracks, but really he was just buying time. he said her name instead, just her name, and she looked up. she didn’t say anything, but she put her mug down and waited for the rest. he said, “i could fix the piano,” and she said, “not yet,” and he understood. for a long moment after, she turned the cup slowly in her hands, not drinking, just holding the warmth of something that wouldn’t last. on the third morning, he sat down at the piano and played what was left. that night, she left the window open all night and by morning the room smelled like someone else’s garden. lena didn’t close it the next night either, and martin didn’t ask her to.