Your favorite thing about summer is all the free outdoor concerts, or so you tell me over coffee as we huddle in the café trying to recover from the night before. Not for the music of course, because the really good ones cost money; and nothing sounds as good outdoors, the acoustics are all crap to your ears with that perfect pitch. You like the fact that it’s warm enough at one in the morning to run around in shorts and tank tops, and you love the energy. I laughed at how loud you cheered when the first notes of ‘Baba O’Riley’ played over the speakers, and how your fingers found keys in the air so you could play along. We’re still young enough that enfolded in the night is an invitation, and you were lost to its call.
There was a woman I saw one day who had a piano tattooed on her side, all eighty eight keys. From the outside of her knee to under her breast. My first thought was of pain; because surely something so large and there must have hurt. What kind of dedication would it take to imprint your body so? I don't know it, my skin only carries marks from falling and sharp edges. Then I wondered if she had a favourite song and if all her lovers knew how to play it.
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