When I was ten, Nana took me to see a piano recital. I hadn’t wanted to go, but she insisted.
It was awful.
The tink, tink, tink, the swelling and falling of sound. I wanted to jump up, rip off my summer dress and dance like a Russian Cossack in my knickers and sock feet, all the while screaming Spanish curse words.
But one glance at Nana told me this would not be a good idea. So I suffered.
For art, no less.
*** Another character has surfaced in the author’s mind. Will she be heard?