The music resonates in the spacious room. It’s soft, timid, but broken.
He can almost see her long fingers caressing the ivory keys, ever so softly –almost scared she would break them – and yet, so lovingly. Today is a day of sharing; a day of memories. The dim light of the lamp caresses his features, gently, like her touch once used to do when he had that look his face: the look of a man who was carrying the world on his shoulders. He smiles faintly, taking another sip of wine. He gets up, suddenly, deciding to share the glass with her, the empty chair as his only company as his footsteps echo in the middle of the winter.
When people see him, the first thing they make comments on, is his hat. Too colourful; too bright; too strange. The truth is, he loves that hat. He loves telling stories on how he got it and how it makes him feel happy, especially when the sky outside is so grey. Everyone has a story to tell; every story is unique. Never boring, always special. He would take a photo of that story, to remember it and never forget. He’s quite the artist. And he loves telling a story; if it can bring a smile, even better. That’s exactly what he tells himself, when he takes the photo of the stag head, hanging on the wall.
There’s always been the two of them. Laughing, talking or simply sharing silence. They look at their phones flashing, enjoying each other’s company. Silence is not wrong; not always. It can feel right, it can make you feel at home. He’s texting his brother, his lips curved in half a smile. He misses him; he can never make it.
“He’s a man, he works. He’s busy”, he tries to tell himself.
The phone rings. Another excuse is made.
“It doesn’t matter”, he murmurs, ending the call, looking across the table.His friend smiles.
And it doesn’t; there will always be him.Cinema and pizza never sounded more appealing.