Some Time Ago

"I don’t like children." I hurry down the street. It’s raining. I adjust my scarf and watch as an old lady struggles to close her umbrella. 

"But… you like music, yeah?" The little girl said, giving my arm a desperate tug. Little tears of rain streamed from her bangs, racing down her freckled face. It bothered me that she didn’t wear a hood - I jerk my hand away to pull mine further over my eyes. I didn’t care that the bus stop was merely a leap away. I didn’t wake up at 6:00AM to ensure my makeup is flawless for it to be ruined by bad weather. 

The old lady finally got that umbrella closed as I shuffled beneath the shelter. 

The girl stands next to me, folds her hands like me, looks up at the rain smacking angry on the roof like me, like we were related or something. I don’t know why this makes me mad but it does. Especially when she grins up at me, showing the little gap between her teeth. 

At first I scoff and turn away, hoping she will get the hint and leave me alone. But then I notice the old ladies eyes, looking all sore and reeking of judgment. She lives at the condo I recently moved into. I remember seeing her shuffle her designer shopping bags into the building. 

"Sure." I tell the little girl bitterly. "I do like music." 

Instantly, she hops up, her red rain boots making that squeaking sound. She calls something through the glass from outside. In the rain, I hear nothing. She pulls out the bench of one of those “play me I’m yours” pianos - one with little red handprints pressed into the white base, and begins hammering on the keys. Her boot bobbing up and down on the peddle. I take out my phone out of habit, staring at the blank screen. The old lady sits on the bench and holds her cane like a joystick. I decided to sit as well. I wanted to tell her that I am usually not like this, rude or whatever. But I just landed a financial analyst internship at the Jarus Green sky building on Fairview lane. I promised myself I’d go over some statistics in my head as I awaited the bus. Using the reflection of the glass to clean up a little smudge of mascara, I practiced reciting them with confidence. The little girl waved and tried to call me outside, thinking I was looking to her. I probably forgot to wave back - I was in the middle of multiplying. This was important for me to do because there was nothing I hated more in school than mathematics. 

Thankfully the bus arrives before she can come and ask me for my money. 

The next day, the little girl appears, grins, then asks me the same thing. "Do you want to hear the song?"

Through the glass, I see the old lady watching me carefully. 

"No thank you, child." I say. "I’ve heard enough piano notes to last me the rest of my life." 

“But I’ve wrote the song myself." She jumps, standing in front of me. "You ought to listen because only I can play it." 

"Why aren’t you in school?” I push around her and into the bus stop. 

"I hate school." She follows. 

"And you expect to pay for rent with a handful of looneys in a hat.” I tell her. 

"I don’t want people’s coin when I play.” She says. "Only their ears." 

"You should be in school." I sit down, looking straight. I have my business outfit on today. The shoulders stick out and make me look proper. Despite this, the old lady still shuffles over and scolds me like crawled out of the sewage. "Pay attention to the mathematics." I try to ignore her. "It’s better to teach yourself to like the things that you’ll eventually make a living of."

"That is what my mother tells me." The little girl sits and crosses her rain boots. “She doesn’t listen.” 

I uncross mine. "She does not need to. She’s right. You’ll understand one day." This time, when I go on the bus, I pause briefly on the steps. Maybe I should give her a smile at least. I shake my head and continue on.  

There’s a bit of sun casting over the sidewalk as I step. This time, when the little girl runs up to me, I press my lips together in an attempt at a greeting. 

Her enthusiasm makes me regret it. 

 "I figured out something about the song I wrote. it won’t be just a song for the street piano because when people hear it, you know what? They’ll stop and wonder hmm… what piece is this, Mozart? Chopin?" She declared. "And I’ll say me, I wrote it. I’m actually going to play it for them one day. For real. In one of those big opera houses. Do you want to hear it?"

I feel the colour drain from my face. I say nothing. I stand by the bus stop. I don’t want the old lady to scold me today. Yesterday my boss said my clothes were not good enough. That I am a bore. That I sound about as enthusiastic as a food critic at McDonalds. I wish that I can prove him wrong but I was never good at lying. I wear the clothes again because it is all I have. 

The little girl’s smile fell, she looked to her boots. "You lied about liking music, didn’t you?" 

I take out my phone and pretend to be occupied by checking new texts. I had none. He left me on read again. "I don’t like music anymore." My face went white. 

"You don’t play the piano anymore?" 

I say nothing. A wound forms between my rib as I occupy my mind by going over the statistics I’ve written down on my notes. The pain worsened as I scrolled through the numbers. 

"You know what." She says suddenly. Her little nose scrunching together. “I don’t like adults." 

"Every child says that." I mutter. "Until you become one." 

"Well I promise I’ll never quit music. Till the day I die!" The little girl swore. Her hair red and unbrushed. She wore an oversized men’s shirt. I wonder if she’s homeless. She sure looks and dresses like it. Perhaps she doesn’t go to school because her peers make fun of her for it.

Why did he leave me on read again?

“And I swear I’ll never like boys." She peers into the screen. "That’s gross."

"You will." I say. Shutting it off. "So brush your hair once in a while." 

“I’ll never get a phone either." She watched as I tuck it in my front pocket. "All adults do is have the screen in their face. I swear I’ll never put a screen in my face."

Thankfully I see the bus turn the corner. "Go to school or something." I tell her. My best attempt at a goodbye. 

"I don’t have to." She tells me. "They say Im dying. I can spend time how I want." 

The pain in my ribs grows still before it worsens. I feel the urge to run away. Maybe I should give the child a hug. But I don’t really feel like it. My feet bob as I wait. Maybe I shouldn’t go to work today at all. 

"They probably don’t swing on the swing sets either." She swings her foot thinking about it. "Do you swing on the swing sets?"

"No." I tell her, my throat going dry. 

"Do you at least play Walmart superhero’s?" She asks, standing in front of me. “It’s where one is the villain and knocks all the toys down, the hero has to put them all back before the police finds out. The police is-"

"I know." I answer. My voice rushed, as though it’ll help the bus come faster. “The employee’s." 

She grins up at me. "You do play!"

I swallow the gulp in my throat. "No. Not anymore." 

She looks away in disappointment. 

The bus comes. I stay still. This time, it was the girl that walks away first. She goes to the piano. The driver calls my name. I don’t take my eyes off of the girl. The old lady calls me mad, tells me to move forward. I don’t. I watch as the child’s fingers dance over the keys. So perfectly arranged in a way only she knew. The song was beautiful. I hope she plays in one of those big opera houses and I hope someone listens. I want to tell her that, but I don’t. 

"You know," The little girl calls out as she finishes, taking her foot off the pedal. "You are quite miserable. I’m happy to be dying if it means I won’t turn out like you." 

I don’t want to go to work anymore. 

The next day I run to the bus stop. I expect the old lady to give me her most disgusted look yet. I wore no makeup. My t-shirt is oversized. My hair was tied behind my head and loosening as I run. I think maybe I’ll take the little child to Walmart today. I’d like to swing on the swing set too. But the old lady doesn’t look at me any different than she usually does - like I’m some vile disgusting creature, no better than the rats that invade the condo in the winter. 

The piano lid is tucked over the keys, it hits me instantly. 

"She’s gone isn’t she." I ask. 

"Who?" At the sound of her voice, the pigeons fly away. 

"The little child." I say. 

She shakes her head, her eyebrows raising. "I haven’t seen anyone other than you and I here at this hour for years." 

It did not take long for me to go and slide the cover off the keys of the piano. My skin gently sits against the ivory. The bus takes off behind me. I begin to play. The hole in my ribs fills up, stitching back together with every dance of my finger against the keys. It is her song I play. 

The one I wrote some time ago.