Carrot Cake in F, Herbal Tea in F Sharp

I'm playing in warm keys tonight. I began in D minor to remember the fall season, brown leaves on the sandy paths. One who can't paint with oil, paints with music; my intangible palette is full of colors. Sentimental seventh notes added to the root chord lead me smoothly to F major: while the daytime F is bright orange, the night F tastes like home, gingerbread or carrot cake. I'd have herbal tea with those but for that, I need a lighter color. Moving to F sharp now. That's good.

During a pause, I reset the vibrating phone alarm once again. It's time to wrap up my session, but the keys feel so soft, and sounds are so tasty tonight. I conclude the improvisation with rippling arpeggios, my foot on the sustain pedal. Little by little, the sound dissolves on its own.

I close the fallboard as gently as I can: it would be a shame to destroy the music still resonating in my head. It lands softly under my fingers.

"Want some cake?" Eugene approaches me. I can hear him smile.

"No, thanks. Not hungry."

"It's not our regular cake. I bet you could hear that gang of chicks from the large table -"

"Oh right. I almost couldn't hear my piano behind their orgy."

"Well, the girls are having a celebration, and they've brought a really, really huge cake."

"Are they even allowed to bring their own food?"

"Well..."

I imagine Eugene tilt his head to the left, hands clasped together.

"Technically not. But they asked, and Charlie said he'd make an exception. This celebration is a kind of big deal," Eugene says. "Did you hear them scream, 'I'm going to see the Great Wall'?"

"I wish I could see the Great Wall."

"Oh. Sorry, Nat."

"It's okay. Listen... I've played too late. I need to catch my bus."

Eugene follows me to the cloakroom and when the attendant hands me my coat, he grabs it swiftly and helps me into the sleeves.

"Eugene, you don't have to..."

"Where's your umbrella?"

"At home."

"What the hell, Nat? I'll call you a cab."

"I'll be fine."

He remains silent for a moment. "All right. Mind the stairs."

*

Behind the doors, the chilly wind runs through me and heavy raindrops are merciless. I make my way to the bus stop, trying not to collide with strangers coming my way. It must be right after the crossing. Here it is! The familiar metal posts of the bus stop are colder than usual, wet from the rain. I mindlessly tap on the metal, producing a damped sound.

"What are you waiting for?" a woman says, her breath reeking of alcohol. "That bitch of a bus has already left. Missed it too."

"Has it? What time is it?"

"Quarter past eleven."

"Isn't there a bus at eleven-thirty?"

"It's been cancelled for a couple weeks now, didn't ya know?"

"No."

My knees suddenly feel so weak that I barely keep upright. The world is falling apart. I imagine the warmth of my home, with a pleasantly heavy cup of herbal tea in my palms. And here I stand, getting soaked in the rain. The contrast is so bitter that I'm ready to tear up.