Helen stood in the kitchen, staring at the CD player on the counter like it was a dog showing his teeth. She folded her hands.
E-flat. C-minor. E-flat. A-flat.
She closed her eyes, tracing the notes with their sloped tails from memory. Soaking in the gentle background of string instruments.
"So what did you do before, you know, you met? What was different?" Cecilia asked from her clean white chair with the expensive trim, her glass earrings swinging gently.
Helen shrugged. "Not very much. I went to school. I went to the beach. That was what you did."
"What did you go to school for?"
Her stomach churned. "Music," she said to the oriental rug.
"Ah, did you play an instrument? Did you sing?"
Helen picked at the nailpolish on her thumb. "I sang. A little." Liar, 'a little'. You were a state finalist. Four scholarships, count 'em, sister. You couldn't breathe without doing it from the diaphram.
Shut that shit off. You think you're good at this? Get another job and make some money for once.
Helen jumped, looking towards the living room with her heart in her ears, her hands gripped around the back of a chair.
A boy streaked past the window facing the street. "I got it!" he yelled, bringing back the ball.
The CD player made a soft squeaking sound as it rewound.
E-flat. C-minor. E-flat. A-flat.
Helen straightened, eyes on the empty living room. She sucked in a deep breath, exhaled.
"Does it still interest you? Maybe you should take lessons again," Cecilia suggested.
I taught classes. I taught my son. "Maybe," Helen answered.
E-flat. Helen opened her mouth, air ready to roll over her tongue.
The neighbors can hear you, Helen. You'll make the dogs bark and Hernando will get pissed. I'm not helping you if he comes over here.
Flat like a hand against her cheekbone, sharp.
Her voice curled at the back of her throat like a hand, refusing to budge.
Anger made her tears hot. The chair creaked under her hands as she glared at the couch in the living room. Ten years since they'd put him away and he was still here.
Peter holding her hands. Soft and careful even with the calluses on his palms. "I know some good therapists, darlin'. Say the word and I'll get their numbers." They hadn't even so much as kissed on the lips yet.
The notes came out of her low and ugly and wet, tears salty on her mouth.
But the tigers come at night.