Piano in the Dark. Eric Pete

the speaker.

      Most deliveries by courier to the firm that were for Jacobi and a few other attorneys were dropped off in my name for handling. Pushing away from my desk, I adjusted my tie and walked to the front.

      Entering our newly renovated waiting area, I walked across the granite floors to the large mahogany receptionist desk where Kelli Jo was seated. Looking over her shoulder, the elderly guardian to our firm smiled at me as I approached.

      “Good afternoon, sunshine,” she gushed. “Working through lunch again?”

      “Either that or coming in over the weekend, which the missus wouldn’t like.” I looked at the bin beside her. A single thin package rested there. “Is that it?” I asked.

      “That’s it, honey,” she replied as she retrieved the package for me. “They weren’t sure you worked here at first. Had to ask.”

      “Oh,” I responded as I took it from Kelli Jo’s hand. The package was clearly addressed to me, not to the firm or one of the attorneys here. There was no return address, which piqued my curiosity, but I still waited to get back to the confines of my office before opening it.

      I peeled back the crisply folded taped covering to reveal a rush of vibrant colors. I carefully removed the contents, which turned out to be a tiny, framed oil painting: An abstract painting of what appeared to a lone man sitting at a piano.

      I stared at it for a moment. Silent. Dealing with the unusual emotions evoked by it that contorted my insides. If you asked me, I’d be unable to put words to what I was feeling.

      “Damn,” I finally muttered as whatever had overcome me subsided. Maybe it was a gift from one of our business partners as they were known to do. Definitely out of the box on their part, but who sent it? I stuck my hand back inside the wrapping to fish for a note, a business card, or something. Nothing this unique could be anonymous.

      I found nothing inside the wrapping, but almost missed the tiny scrap of paper that had fallen onto my desk when I pulled the gift free. I held it up, reading the woman’s handwriting.

      Chase,

      So glad our paths crossed again. Couldn’t get you out my head when I went home, so I worked on this. Hope you don’t mind and hope

      to see you around in the future.

      -Ava

      I guess I wasn’t alone in my dreams.

      5

      “What are you doing?” I asked into the phone as the remote arm in front of my car rose. I eased into the early evening light of the downtown street. A homeless man outside our parking garage waved a sign: Spare change or a new Harley-Davidson. Either will do.

      “Well, I just picked myself up off the floor,” my wife answered.

      “Huh?” I said as I motioned the man over, offering up the change in my pocket and giving a thumbs-up to the humor of his sign.

      “I’m in shock that you’d call this early, Chase. It’s not even eight o’clock yet.”

      “Cute,” I said, figuring out Dawn’s jab at my recent activities. “No late night for me, honey. Wanted to see how you feel about dinner.”

      “Are you suggesting a dinner date? On a weeknight?” she teased.

      Before entering the street traffic, I looked at my gift on the passenger seat, that kind artistic gesture from a stranger. “Yes. I’m suggesting a date,” I replied with a chuckle. “Be ready. I’ll call you when I get on the Hardy Toll Road.”

      “I love you,” my wife said as I prepared to hang up.

      “I love you too.”

      This was my attempt at mending things with Dawn. But midtown wasn’t far from the office. Only a diversion of a few minutes, I told myself. That reasoning led me to take a circuitous route home; a path that led me down Louisiana under I-45 before winding my way over to Bagby Street. Couldn’t hurt to see if Ava happened to be out and about in her neighborhood. And all I wanted to do was thank her for the thoughtful gift.

      See her and be on my way.

      Nothing to feel guilty about.

      Yeah. Right.

      I felt the same sensation, like last night. Little needles pricking my skin all over. Like the only way I could eliminate this feeling was by pressing on. Crazy to think odds would favor my crossing her path this easily, but logic didn’t have a place at the dinner table just now.

      I slowed down as I came upon the pub again. Was Ava a regular? Did she usually arrive early? Or was she normally one to shut the place down? Was she with anyone last night? None of my business, but I wanted to know nonetheless.

      When I didn’t recognize her from the people entering, I made a left turn onto Webster. It would give me time to figure out whether I wanted to make another round past the place or simply make my way home. Just then, my iPhone rang out from its place in the passenger seat next to Ava’s gift. I hadn’t had a chance to slap my Bluetooth on, so I reached over in case it was Dawn calling. In spite of this minor detour, I wasn’t avoiding her tonight. Things were in a good place at the moment.

      “Hello?” I answered, preparing to say why I wasn’t on the Hardy Toll Road just yet.

      “You’re gone already?” my friend and boss Jacobi asked. No doubt having stuck his head into my office, he knew the answer, but his tone was more a plea that I change my mind. I was his safety net at the firm.

      “Yeah. Dinner with Dawn tonight. I got reservations at Perry’s Steakhouse for us,” I stated so as to stop him from begging that I return to the office—an uncomfortable position I found myself in by virtue of not finishing law school.

      To my right on Webster Street, several midtowners moved about on the sidewalk. Some were briskly jogging while others went about their business in a more leisurely manner—walking their dogs or strolling with their children before dark. Life in this trendy yet accessible section of Houston, where the expense of living near downtown was more annoyance than obstacle, was usually interesting to observe. I didn’t hear anything else spoken by Jacobi at the moment as I singled out a lone individual from the rest. She held a full-sized brown paper sack and was walking toward me. Her long black hair bounced with each step. The buzzing jitters that had guided me here ceased.

      Although the Randalls grocery bag only afforded me a partial view, I knew it was Ava. She couldn’t have recognized my car from our short encounter last night, so I honked to get her attention. She was slow to react, looking in the wrong direction from behind her bag at first, before continuing her stride.

      I was about to honk again, not seeing anywhere to pull over on the shoulder, when our eyes met. It was her. No doubt about it. She smiled, lowering the grocery bag from its high grip. I waved and broke into an equally generous smile. “I’ll call you back,” I said to a still-talking Jacobi just as I hung up.

      As I dropped my phone back on the seat, I looked again toward Ava, expecting to see that same warmth emanating from her as before.

      Instead I was met with terror as I rolled closer. The grocery bag she held fell, plummeting in freefall onto the pavement, its contents spilling out in disarray. I was thoroughly confused, unable to make out the words she was screaming in my direction. If I’d had more attention on the road, I would’ve understood immediately.

      A dog.

      A tiny Yorkie.

      Amazing what one locks in on in times of stress.

      It escaped its owner’s control and had darted out directly in front of my car.

      “Shit!” I yelled to no one but myself as I mashed down on the brake pedal, my foot threatening to burst through the floorboard à la Fred Flintstone. My Camry screeched to a halt, inertia sending me lurching forward until stopped by the firm tug of the seat belt. Everyone that witnessed it was as startled