She drops it dramatically with a grimace, then she hides her face in her hand and groans. “That was stressful.”
“Was it really?”
She lowers her hands. “No. I suppose not. But this song is awful. Reallyawful.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, perform it.”
“No way. It’s humiliating. You’ll laugh.”
“I hope so. I could use a laugh.”
She throws me another betrayed look, positions her fingers on the strings, and begins to sing, slowly and solemnly.
Oh, Mr Pigeon, round and grey
Why do you look at me that way?
Is it crumbs you seek to find?
Are you plotting against mankind?
Oh, Mr Pigeon, brave and bold,
A knight with feathers, grey and coal
Guarding crumbs with noble pride
While treasures drop from your backside
I chortle. She laughs too—a lovely sound.
“See?” I say when we finally settle. “You wrote something. And the world didn’t end.”
“It was rubbish,” she insists, pressing a hand to her forehead.
“But you seemed to enjoy yourself.”
“I did,” she admits.
My voice grows gentler. “Sometimes you have to clear the tension away like rubbish to find the treasure underneath.”
“Or pigeon poop,” she jokes.
“As it were.”
Her expression softens. “Thanks. This was…helpful, I think.” She stands. “I should probably go get ready. I promised I’d be at the café tonight, so…”
I rise as well. “Of course.”
She heads for the stairwell, but I call out, “Lily-Anne—wait.”
She turns back. “Yes?”
“If you do decide to play tonight…just play for joy, not perfection.”
“Thanks, Brandon.” She gives me another smile, warmer this time, but it’s still just a shadow of what it was before. I wish I knew the right thing to say to bring back its brightness.
I stare after her as she leaves, footsteps fading up the stairwell.
