Paul Smith continued from now that you are broken by the seas, in the depths of the waters )) Paul sauntered through the mall with a bouquet in one hand and a Starbucks cup of black coffee in the other. AirPods Max covered his ears, leaking out a faint guitar riff that no one could hear over the din of the crowded mall. On this particular day, he wore a dark brown, plaid vest over a white button-down shirt. His pants were black but became wider the further down they went, with the material at his calves looking billowy until it came to an abrupt stop, tucked into black combat boots. A gold necklace with a locket in the shape of a rose hung low around his neck. His usual black eyepatch covered his right eye and his blond hair was held in a low ponytail with his bangs framing his face.
As Paul approached the entrance of Nordstrom inside the mall, he noticed a grand piano. Carefully, he lowered his headphones so that they hung around his neck. Sometimes malls or other public places tried to class up the joint with a piano, he'd observed. Whoever was normally there wasn't currently at their post. A small sign on top of the glossy surface indicated in a curly cursive that the player was on break.
Paul walked up, pulled the bench back, and sat down. He placed the bouquet of multi-colored daisies on the lid and set his leather messenger bag to the side. Paul took a deep breath and touched the keys without applying pressure.
There was something very calming and beautiful about the piano. Every note was laid bare in front of him in the keys; it was an instrument that invited you to try and discover its secrets. He had a keyboard at home, but it wasn't the same as an acoustic piano that let him feel the notes reverberating in each finger.
He played a few notes -- deep ones with his left hand and with the other hand, a little melody -- then stopped abruptly. Paul drained the cup of coffee and put it on the edge of the piano lid. He took out his pack of Post-Its and scribbled a message before slapping one on the cup.
FEELING TIP-SY? I'LL WRITE A SONG ABOUT YOU.
He looked down and restarted the piece. It was a wistful tune cradled by a booming undercurrent that weighed it down, like someone fighting to confess their feelings. He stepped on the right pedal, elongating the notes to fit his flair for the dramatic. Paul felt his pulse lower and his body enter a trance as he translated Wojciech Kilar's darkly sentimental music through his digits.
