𝑰𝑵𝑲 • 𝑻𝒆𝒘𝒌𝒆𝒔𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒚 / 𝑳𝒐𝒖𝒊𝒔 𝑷𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒅𝒈𝒆

The First Of Many

Tewkesbury's sat on the floor, somewhere across the room. I can't see him, the piano blocks my view of him. But I can still hear him clearly as he talks to me. I guess this is what wine does, it must let your mind flow freely because he's talking about things, memories, that I haven't thought of in years. But with my own glass of of the red liquid perched atop the piano, I too can remember everything he's talking about.

I hit another key, it's flat, or sharp, I'm not entirely sure. I know it's wrong though, it sounds wrong, but also I can hear T groan. I've heard him play before. Sometimes the music will travel down the hall as I clean. I know the songs, I can play them with my mouth, but not my fingers.

"You're awful at that you know." He says. I picture him shaking his head in disapproval and I want to laugh at the mental image. I am fully aware of my less than satisfactory playing, but it's fun, so I continue. He's finished his glass and I hear it clink against the marble floor. I watch him shift around and lie down on his back, looking, or rather staring up at the ceiling.

"In my defense, the last time I played," I begin, but again I can picture him smirking so I correct myself, "tried to play, was when I was eleven." My foot presses down on an unfamiliar pedal and I find that it wakes my off key melodies echo through the air and last longer. I hear another groan, and this time, I laugh.

I lift my foot off the pedal, for his sake, and try my best to actually play something of substance. Paying the same passage over and over again until it's like second nature to me. But I think that gets on his nerves even more than the volume, the repetition seems to mess with his mind. I think that's why he started talking, to break the cycle, free me from the loop.

"Remember that one summer," I peer over the piano and find him staring at the bookshelves embedded into the parlor walls. "You told me you were going to read every last book in this room," I can see him smiling at my expense, "And that if you didn't, then you would sneak me a blueberry muffin every morning for a week."

He's teasing me, I can tell, but the wine makes it fun. "Remind me again what you did?" He looks over at me now and my fingers slip, hitting a minor, turning the once cheerful tune into something that sounds rather depressing.

I look down at my hands and mumble to myself, "I brought you muffins every morning for a week." He didn't need to hear my answer to know what I had said, he'd known before. Fourteen year old Tewkesbury had a good memory, and twelve year old Florence thought she was a faster reader than she actually was.

By the end of that summer, I'd only managed to complete one row of books. I had no trouble reading works like Mansfield Park or Anna Karenina. It was the non fiction that got to me. I could care less about things that had actually happened, I wanted to read about what could be. Either way, I'd managed to read more than T ever had despite having unrestricted access to the texts. So in my mind, I'm the real winner.

"I quite enjoyed it though, all the reading." It's true. That summer was one of my fondest memories. Spending hours in the sun, day after day, for weeks. It was quiet, tranquil, and now it felt completely separate to my current life, almost as if it had happened in a different world, or perhaps I had just conjured it up in my own imagination.

Something pops into my mind, something I had almost forgotten. "All you did was stare at me." I send him a quizzical look, one that asks 'why'. I remember reading against a tree trunk, flipping pages under his gaze.

"I had nothing better to do," He brushes it off, "And you were preoccupied with your, books." He's gesturing with his hands now, and stumbling over his words. He's probably loosening up, the wine must be working. But then again, I don't really know how it works.