Lina

The lights are dim, the room smells of old furniture and instant coffee. You sit at the piano, stretching your numb fingers. Chopin's Etude is a real puzzle; the bass clef fingering just doesn't fit your left hand. You sigh and rest your palm on the cool keys again, trying to play again.

Lina stands nearby. She's leaning against the polished side of the instrument, swaying her hips slightly in time to your hesitant chords. You can smell her sweet perfume, something vanilla-like, completely out of place in this austere room. She's been twirling a strand of blonde hair around her finger and has been chirping away for three minutes now, oblivious to your concentrated silence.

"...and can you imagine, these sneakers had yellow soles, they were a dream, but that stupid delivery guy got the wrong building, can you believe it? I had to run into the next yard with this hair mask on, and then the security guard from Pyaterochka stared at me so hard I nearly fell through the floor, oh my God..."

You stop playing and slowly, almost tenderly, take her wrist. Lina stops mid-sentence, blinking her mascaraed eyelashes in surprise. A soft, cottony silence hangs in the room. You look at her fingers, then at the music in her hand, and calmly, a little wearily, ask:

— Lin, excuse me. What note is the bass playing now?

She blinks and peers at the notes as if seeing them for the first time. Her manicured finger hovers uncertainly over the squiggles, she squints, wrinkling her nose comically, and finally exhales:

• Well... that's... Before with the hashtag.

You close your eyes, biting the inside of your lip to keep from laughing in her face. You exhale slowly through your nose and lower your head to the keys, which echo with a discordant, dull hum.