The first thing TJ noticed when he stepped into the small den was the piano. Baby grand, Kimball, natural wood color. The poor thing was left open all the time, the strings and innards coated in dust, the extreme ends of the keyboard coated in dust as well. A corner of the piano had been chipped, probably during transportation. Several music books were open on the music stand, as well as some taped-together sheet music. Something in Korean called Beautiful. A couple of old protestant hymn books. Beside them was bafflingly, a jar with moss and a plastic unicorn in it. There was more than one pianist in this house, or the pianist had very eclectic taste in music.
There was a drum kit beside the piano, the drum throne closest to the window. The drums were dusty but the heads and cymbals weren’t; someone played often. TJ had often regretted being the only musician in his family; he always made music alone.
The carpet and walls were dull beige, but the couches were red-and-green plaid. Whoever had decorated the place had acquired pieces with little thought to a decorating theme, had probably acquired the pieces used and as needed. The loveseat had a case for an electric bass spilled across it, and a couple of amps were shoved into the corner. A dusty guitar case stood against the opposite wall; it looked like it hadn’t been used in a while.
The wooden end table beside one of the couches was covered in books, pens, and a tissue box. Someone was reading a psychology journal about serial killers and suffering from a cold.
The room was decorated sparsely, two pictures hung on two of the walls, a third wall dominated by a massive circular clock that read the wrong time - someone had neglected to change it during the last time change.
The room, however, looked comfortable. Lived in. A blanket was bundled on one edge of the couch, a laptop open on the arm of the couch. A yoga mat was rolled up in the corner. TJ wondered, if he’d grown up in a house like this, small and poky and plain, but filled with music and books and softness, privacy, where he could bundle up and lose himself in what he loved, if he’d have turned out better.
Not a drug addict.
Not a coward who tried to kill himself.
Someone worth loving.
He pushed those thoughts aside, crossed the room to the piano, pulled the bench out, and leaned in, peered at the sheet music. Tested it out.
The song was beautiful indeed.
