A Beautiful Melody by Lilliana Anderson Page A

creating a gentle ping.  “What are you working on?”
    “Um… nothing – yet. It will eventually be a song though,” I tell her, try ing to laugh it off as I pick my notes up from the seat next to me and place them on top of the piano. Even though I don’t mean it this way, she takes it as an invitation to sit down. Her body brushes lightly against mine, and I move just enough to make a space between us. I don’t know why, I just need that gap there.
    “I heard a little bit of what you were playing. It was really nice.” She positions her fingers on the keys and starts to play the tune I’ve been working on. Hearing her play it seems strange since it’s only been coming from me so far, and it’s not finished yet.
    At first, I’m not sure how to react. Initially, I want to push her away and slam the cover down over the keys. But of course I don’t – give me a little credit. I’m not that much of a jackass.
    Why is that my first instinct? Well, because she’s playing my piano . The one that I don’t let anybody touch. On top of that, she’s just walked in and plucked the song from the air and without any need for practice, she’s playing it perfectly. I shouldn’t be shocked at this, but it’s a little disconcerting. Especially when I wasn’t ready to show anyone yet.
    I’m glad I don’t go with my instinct though, because she adds a little something to the ending that is the exact melody it was missing.
    “That’s it!” I gasp, quickly grabbing my note book to jot the notes down. “Play it again,” I tell her as my pencil hovers over the lined page.
    As she repeats the melody, my hand works furiously to fill in the notes. Standing up, I hold the notebook in front of me, pacing the floor back and forth as I run the tune through in my head. Grinning as I see the puzzle come together.
    “How did you –” I start to ask. But I stop myself, because I already know. It’s exactly what she’s always done.
    “Do you have any lyrics for it?” she asks. Spinning around to face me. It’s then that her eyes widen a little before her cheeks flush pink and she drops her gaze to the floor.
    I stand before her, suddenly realising that I’m only wearing my pyjama pants and no shirt. Letting out an unsteady chuckle, my hand floats up and scratches the back of my head, s moothing over my hair that feels as though it’s standing up on end like a porcupine on crack.
    “Um, I’ll just go and get a shirt,” I tell her, pointing towards the door that attaches to the house. “And maybe some actual clothes,” I frown.
    “I can come back another time if that works better for you,” she calls after me.
    “Uh, no. Today’s fine. I just lost track of time. Just um… the kitchen. Coffee,” I call out, rushing toward my bedroom. Hastily, I remove my pyjamas and pull on my jeans , grabbing a shirt from the floor and sniffing it for any offending odours. It’s fine. I smell myself. Shit. I stink. “Um. I need a shower,” I yell down the hall. “I’ll be five minutes.”
    I hear her yell ‘ok’ and make my way to the bathroom for the fastest shower and shave on the planet.
     

Naomi
    Theo has one of those Nespresso coffee machines that take the pods, so all I have to do is fill the compartments with milk and water and I’m ready to go. But since he’s going to take a shower, I stop making coffee and start to wander around his living areas.
    It’s interesting being inside someone’s house. Especially someone who , until twelve hours ago, seemed to not to like me that much. It’s like you get this little window into who they are. Suddenly they become more of a person than a nemesis as you start to discover common ground – like the old piano for instance.
    I’ve had one just like that since I was about fifteen. I begged my parents to get it for me. They were really loath to , because they wanted me to focus more on the violin, and they felt the electric keyboard I had was sufficient. But after