Play Me Songs

He plinked out notes on an upright piano.

Play me songs, she said. Songs I can sing to. Songs I know.

He played a brief melody that she thought she knew. Just as she caught it and began to hum along, he went right back to plinking.

I knew that one, she said. Play it again.

He played a new tune that she knew she knew. She caught it quick and hummed right in. Then he changed it. He changed keys. He made it minor. He smothered it with dissonance. She lost the tune and he went right back to plinking.

That was my favorite, she said. I want to sing to something. Play me something good.

He played a tune she never heard before. She sat and listened, imagining she knew it.

I don’t know this, she said.

He kept on. He repeated phrases. He came to the hook. She hummed the bits that stuck with her.

Who is this? she asked.

He made it to the bridge and paused. He plinked for a second.

That’s not a real song, she said. Is it?

He plinked a bit more and then into the bridge. She swayed. She hummed. He hit his crescendo. He resolved. He stopped. She stared.

Play me a real song, she said.

He looked at her. He looked at the piano. He plinked a note, then another and another, plinking note after note. She sighed.