There was barely enough room in Nicola’s apartment to fit the little stand up piano. It was wedged against the oatmeal colored wall width-wise, overlapping with the end of his forest green couch. The only light in the room, a small lamp with a plain black shade he had also purchased secondhand had been moved from the floor to the top of the piano and his TV was now in front of the only window in the room.
The piano was an old sturdy thing with a floral design carved into the full stand above the keyboard. A few of the yellowed keys were chipped and one was even missing. Nicola wasn’t much of a musician these days but his childhood had been filled with the sound of the crisp notes played on his mother’s electric Yamaha.
Nicola winced as he played Hot Cross Buns. The piano was horribly out of tune. All the same, the familiarity of it was a comfort. It was like riding a bike, all muscle memory. He pressed the wrong key. Maybe it wasn’t like riding a bike at all.
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