Emma’s expression changed.
Something inside her stopped bending.
“You’re enjoying this.”
Richard looked almost offended.
“I’m teaching a lesson.”
“To who?”
He smiled.
“Perhaps everyone.”
Emma stepped away.
“I’m leaving.”
Richard placed the plate on a table.
“Of course.”
His voice grew louder.
“Because leaving is easier than proving value.”
Emma stopped.
There it was.
The sentence he wanted to sting.
It succeeded.
She turned.
Richard had already seen the piano.
The grand Steinway sat beneath a chandelier near the windows.
Black.
Perfect.
Emma had noticed it when she first entered.
She had intentionally refused to look again.
Richard pointed toward it.
“Can you play?”
Emma went still.
Not visibly.
Inside.
Every memory woke at once.
Her mother’s hands.
Her father tuning the old piano.
Metronome.
Competitions.
Practice rooms.
Winter mornings.
Juilliard hallways.
The instrument being removed from their apartment after the bills became impossible.
Emma whispered:
“Yes.”
Richard laughed.
“You can.”
“Yes.”
“Professionally?”
Emma hesitated.
That hesitation gave him confidence.
“I thought so.”
He addressed the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, apparently our guest possesses hidden talents.”
More diners turned.
Phones appeared.
Emma looked toward the exit.
Richard continued:
“We’ll make this simple.”
He pointed toward the piano.
“Play something worth listening to.”
Emma looked at him.
“And?”
“You get your meal.”
A few uncomfortable smiles.
Richard spread his hands.
“Fair.”
Emma’s voice was quiet.
“You’re making me perform because I asked for work.”
“I’m asking you to demonstrate usefulness.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
Richard gestured toward her clothes.
“You arrived with nothing.”
“You say you want employment.”
“You say you can contribute.”
“So contribute.”
Emma felt anger spreading into every place hunger had occupied.
Richard leaned closer.
“Unless you don't actually have any useful skills.”
She said nothing.
He smiled.
“There’s a fast-food restaurant two blocks away.”
“Perhaps they'll be less selective.”
A man near the window looked down at his plate.
A woman whispered:
“That's enough.”
Richard heard.
He ignored her.
Emma stared at the piano.
Eight months.
She had not played for eight months.
The last keyboard she owned had been sold for one hundred eighty dollars.
Rent.
One week.
After that, music existed only in memory.
Sometimes Emma moved her fingers against her thigh while riding the subway.
Scales.
Arpeggios.
Fragments.
Her hands remembered even when everything else seemed determined to forget.
Richard spoke again.
“Well?”
Emma looked at him.
“I’ll play.”
Something changed in his smile.
Triumph.
He believed she had accepted his rules.
Emma added:
“But when I start, you listen.”
Richard laughed.
“I think everyone will.”
Emma removed her backpack.
Placed it beside the piano.
The walk across the restaurant felt longer than any stage entrance she remembered.
Whispers followed.