Photo Story: The Trumpeter’s Caress
She waits in the corner, haughty and lacquered. I always sit close, inhaling her delicate scent of beeswax polish. Customers dine here just to be near her. So, despite her missing key, she has never been replaced by extra tables.
Her song was rich and melodic, a husky laugh. I miss it dearly, but she should never have let that trumpeter caress her. His inexpert hand made her laughter shrill, mocking.
Well, nobody’s laughing now. I rub the ivory key in my pocket. Of course, she is too stubborn to ask for it back, as we sit in eternal silence.
Loved it
Great story! The language is vibrant with detail, and that ending is brilliant.
Love it – I wish I could hear its song.