Love Was Not Her Answer


 Her stare challenged everything in sight: late twenties and a practised controller of events, the answer to many situations lodged in her experience, she feared little but some aspects of emotion, and looked on those she knew as reference points. Unmarried and unattached, six years spent with a school-time love now an untapped memory, she had determined, if nothing else, that life was a matter of furnishings and coats

Her friends were now her family, and home a concept more than place. Safe within her talents and new owner of a property, she could see the sky outside the window was full of colour, glimpsed between the building tops. Below was a patch of garden although not her own: she had not met the owners yet, and there was no reason she would do so.

The knock on her door was not solicited, and she opened it more from habit than intent to reveal a boy of six looking up at her with enquiring face, “Do you play the piano miss” he asked as if she knew his name and before she could control herself, she said “Yes” because that was a dormant passion in her life. “We’ve just got one from my gran, she’s dead” he told her by way of explanation, and added “Come and see”

Why she did we cannot say but there was an openness about him she could not bear to bruise and she so walked down with him to the flat below where , sure enough, a battered upright stood against the wall, lid raised and keyboard in full view. His mother poked her head round the kitchen door, a bit older than herself but not by much, and clearly on a different path and warm.

Both looked at her expectantly, uneasily it must be said, as she sat down and played one of her own compositions, composed before her father lost his way and her old home became a mausoleum. The boy started dancing by her stool and his mother said, “That’s really good” and so it may have been, but written in another time, when flowers bloomed and angels still wore white.

What do you do?” the mother asked, and she replied, “I am a retail analyst for a large department store.” The mother was impressed, though in a baffled way. “What about the music?” she asked and the young boy said, “Play some more,” but she replied, “I must get on, I’m sure you understand” and the mother said “Of course” and the boy just shook his head, for he still lived in that gentle place where flowers bloomed and angels still wore white.

 

 

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About Peter Wells aka Countingducks

Trying to remember what my future is
This entry was posted in Art, character, creative writing, faith, Humanity, Peter Wells, Romance, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

21 Responses to Love Was Not Her Answer

  1. This is lovely, although I must confess I read it with a great deal of recognition of myself, transposed. Perhaps this is the talent of great writing?

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  2. Ships that pass in the night or something more perhaps.

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  3. The Day the Music Died. Ah yes. We all have that day, don’t we.

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  4. davidprosser says:

    Stunning.Just oozes description.
    Hugs

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  5. renxkyoko says:

    Just beautiful writing. * bow*

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  6. Vivid and lucid, thank you for this. Your bring life to words.

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  7. ksbeth says:

    a music lover always recognizes another, even if in disguise.

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  8. Well done! Makes you wonder what will come of it…

    Liked by 1 person

  9. Never hide the muse – she will out, eventually.

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  10. russtowne says:

    I enjoyed the story and how you wrapped it up with a pretty bow.

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  11. nelle says:

    I can picture the boy in manhood, thinking back on a memory still perfect. We all need them.

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  12. judithhb says:

    WOW Could imagine the difference between this solitary girl and the woman with the loving child. Perfect thanks.

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  13. Sue Vincent says:

    That choked me, Peter.

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  14. elizaberrie says:

    This hits close to home…unmarried, analytical by profession, former musical talents, jaded by life and death…gave up on having a traditional life….but I put a baby grand where the couch should be.

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  15. Rainee says:

    That was beautiful Peter 🙂

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  16. Meags says:

    Love it, sounds poetic 🙂

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  17. A soft, mellow story with a whimsical, regretful note. We should never lose the music…

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  18. ASH says:

    A wonderful chiaroscuro. The ending flipped to the provocative title nicely.

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  19. That’s lovely! So what do angels wear these days?

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  20. bloggeray says:

    Wow. You have written these lovely paragraphs, all filled with such beautiful lines. Brilliant, just Wow!!!

    Like

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