January 23, 2011 § Leave a comment
Those shutters don’t ever seem to be closed, no matter what time of day or night it is.
All the other houses along this street are concealed, whether by hedges or heavy curtains hanging at the big windows. Most of them are flats now, and if you do catch a glimpse, it’s invariably of a mezzanine floor forced into a too-small space, and the uncertain sameness of decor that marks the territory of the young professional setting up home for the first time.
Not this window though. Those always-open internal shutters reveal ornate cornices, a complicated chandelier lamp arrangement, and that grand piano with a rug half-draped over its body as if to hint at rather than hide its curves.
Sometimes there are two heads at the piano, and sometimes there’s a child being dropped off outside, manhandling an instrument case towards the flaking front door of the building.
Some days there is only one head visible, as the man chases notes up and down the keyboard; some days the traffic noise masks any music that might escape, and today, when the bright room is empty, that noise masks silence that is really only ever just a pause.