There was a long pause. Nothing but the fuzzy static of phone-breath.
Then: “Nora, love, it’s okay, I don’t need a monologue. The truth is we were in town yesterday, the two of us.
I was buying him some facewash and he said, “I’m still going to do piano, right?”
Right there in Boots. Shall we just kick off where we left off next week?”
“Seriously? That’s amazing. Yes, next week then.” And the moment Nora came off the phone
she sat at the piano and played a tune that had never been played before.
She liked what she was playing, and vowed to remember it and put some words to it.
Maybe she could turn it into a proper song and put it out there online.
Maybe she would write more songs. Or maybe she would save up and apply for a Master’s.
Or maybe she would do both. Who knew? As she played, she glanced over and saw her magazine –
the one Joe had bought her – open at a picture of the Krakatoa volcano in Indonesia.
The paradox of volcanoes was that they were symbols of destruction but also life.
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