But then my mind gets out of the way and my fingers start moving, start flying. It takes me a moment to realize what I’m playing. It’s my old favorite ballad, Frank Sinatra’s “The Way You Look Tonight.” My prized masterpiece that I learned as a kid, the one I practiced so much and performed at a recital.
I’m ecstatic that I still have access to it, but I’m anguished too. Because if the muscle memory is there for the beautiful things, it must be there for the brutal ones too.
Up and down the keys my fingers dance. My feet know what to do with the pedals, though I haven’t practiced in decades. I bob to the beat, my spine bending like a puppet, but there’s no one pulling the strings. It’s just me.
When I finish, my whole body is tingling like I’ve just been electrocuted, four lightning strikes in one.
The store owner comes up and asks if I’m interested in purchasing the piano, says it seems made for me.
“Not today,” I say, though the vision of a piano in the Inn flashes through my mind like a prophecy. “But this was just what I needed. Thanks for letting me play.” I tip him five dollars because I carry real bills now, thanks to the Populists’ Playhouse cash-only policy. Then I bounce out of the shop, feeling lighter than I have in ages.
I take the Red Rocket for a spin, driving down toward the Williamsburg Bridge.
It’s a gray sort of day. Gray clouds are blotting the gray cables of the bridge that are framing the gray water of the East River that’s sloshing up against the gray steel of the skyline. In the rearview mirror, my gray irises are looking back at me. I don’t flinch or blink or look away. I hold my own eye contact.
The Rocket’s crusty old windshield wipers are working like new again, keeping the view clear as I drive across the bridge, slower than I’ve ever driven before. The tires hardly have any tread left and I don’t want to skid. There’s too much to lose these days. There always has been; I can just finally see it.
The car behind me honks. It’s one of those long-drawn-out screeches that’s trying to make a statement for the whole city to hear. The sound doesn’t faze me; it just makes me tap the brakes. I’m going to move through this life as slowly or as quickly as I want. I’m a free woman, after all. Three cheers for that, or however many cheers you want. It’s really not my decision to make. It’s yours.
