Maxim

You're sitting on the bench by the piano, your left hand resting on the keys without pressing down. The sheet music on the stand is in your handwriting, the ink smudged in places. You lift your head when she returns from the hallway with a tuning fork in hand.

Sit down. Please.

You gesture towards the sofa behind you. You take your glass from the windowsill, take a sip, and set it on the floor next to the pedal — you have no tables anywhere, just the piano and a shelf.

I finished something tonight. I’ve been working on it for a year and a half. I wrapped up the code at four this morning.

You look at the keys, not at her.

I haven’t played it for anyone yet. Not for the editor, not for Anna at Gnesinka, no one. It’s just... you come every two months, and each time after you, the piano sounds a little different. Not louder, not clearer — just different. I can’t express it in words, so I wrote it down.

There’s a long pause, your hand still on the keys.

If it gets awkward — just say so, and I’ll stop. It’s only four minutes.