piano boy

Piano Boy by

I sat crosslegged on your grey clad bed, back to the wall, watching as you drunkenly scrambled around in the corner. Staring ahead I wondered how I’d got myself into this situation. Only half an hour ago I’d been dancing amongst my friends, leaning into the pulsating beats and colours that swirled around me. A blurred taxi drive home and here I was. I tilted my head back, miscalculating the distance between it and the wall. A hollow bang echoed through the room. A delayed ‘ouch.’ Reaching up to rub my head, I realised that this seemed to be becoming a regular occurrence for me. I certainly entertained the thought that I’d meet someone on nights like these but usually understood that to be wistful thinking rather than proactive decision making. Maybe that was naive of me. The sound of a piano played into my subconscious, pushing aside my thoughts. Oh, it was you. Perhaps it should have come as a surprise, yet it seemed right, seemed fitting, that you would be sitting shirtless at a keyboard in your untidy, cramped bedroom at 3am. I think I was becoming numb to these experiences now, knowing that you would become just another strangely entertaining memory.
I sat and smiled placidly through your performance, unsure of what to do with myself. I could leave but I knew that I didn’t really want to. I was too intrigued. You were a skilful musician, the keys obeying the fingers that glided over them. If it had been under different circumstances I would have quite enjoyed this display of – what to call it? Affection? Not quite. More like endearing arrogance. How many people gave a private concert to a relative stranger after drinking all night? Now I think about it, perhaps more than you’d expect.
I heard the front door slam, you didn’t. The heavy, sloppy footsteps of drunk friends sounded up the stairs and didn’t slow as they passed your bedroom door, one voice shouting out ‘turn that fucking thing off!’ Clearly not an uncommon scene in this house then. I laughed and looked over at you as you defiantly slammed out a few more notes, stood, and joined me on the bed.





Having always been creative, Tess Hassan (she / her) only began to write in the last couple of years. She has just graduated from university where she studied History of Art and English and is currently attempting to situate herself in the working world. Tess finds writing incredibly cathartic and writes stories that she hopes people will find relatable and honest.



Photo – Steven Worster


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