That old piano, elegantly standing in the corner of your, or should I say his, Victorian living room, beautifully singing as you tapped your white porcelain hands on the glossy keys. You’ve had that piano for as long as any of us could remember. You had it in your parent’s old house about an hour out of town, you had it when you moved into that little one-room studio over looking a parking lot when you were in your rebellious faze, and now here, in your new husband’s house, whom I know you don’t love. “What is love, anyway?” I remember asking you one pale afternoon, seated on a green bench eating grilled cheese sandwiches. “An old Roman sculpture, an apple, a hammer, a rusty old watch that you got from your grand father.” You responded with complete indifference. I stood there, dazzled, surprised, enchanted by your response that made so much sense to me. Love is and was a bunch of random, inmate objects. You don’t love him, Lucy.

That piano once held a lovely shiny glaze that covered the newly acquired mahogany. It seemed so perfect back then, so gentle and delicate, so simply ordinary that in it’s simplicity it was especially beautiful to me. Whenever I would go over to your little white house, which was basically everyday after school (I don’t know if you remember this anymore but remember when your Mama’s rose patch was destroyed one Tuesday afternoon and I claimed a rabbit came and jumped into it? It was me. I stepped on it by mistake as I was in a hurry to get to you. I’m sorry.) Anyway, when I would go to your house I used to walk through your living room (even though the hanging Jesus above your fireplace scared the s*** out of me) to would stare at your piano, I don’t really know why ( I know it seems rather creepy) but it reminded me of you. It still does, even though the glaze is chipped and wood has lost its legendary gleam- it is still you.

I recall that one year when you hated your piano, despised it with every bone in your body, wished for its disappearance. You were about ten at this point and your Mama decided that in order to make you a “good Christian” you had to swear to celibacy, attend all church events, and do all that other bulls*** “good Christians” do. She made you take piano classes three times a week in two hour sessions with an evil Russian lady who would slap your sweaty little hands as you cried. My mom would drop me off at your house after your lessons and we would plan master plots to run away to Coney Island together and live underneath the Carousel. What ever happened to that plan, Lucy? It all was ruined when you met Gregory Goldfarb (alliteration! Woah, fancy. Sorry that was kinda obnoxious, I just hate that b******. That fat, red haired, freckled loser with a huge trust fund and thin little deceiving lips.)

I bet you he doesn’t love your piano as much I did and still do (yes, I still love your piano.)

Why did you call me and invite me over to your house last month? We hadn’t spoken since college, that night you called me, your voice shaking so badly that even though I was pissed as hell I asked if you were alright. That night you took my metaphorical heart and ripped it into a million different little pieces. (Just to let you know, Lucy, ever since that agonizing night I’ve been trying to find the pieces you made me lose. I can’t find them, though. Do you have them by chance?)

You told me about Gregory that night and I f***ing died Lucy. Did you know I hit my dorm wall so hard, so angrily that my knuckles started to bleed? Did you know you indirectly made my knuckles bleed? You should feel absolutely horrible, Lucy.

I’m getting a bit carried away. I’m sorry, Lucy, I really am but I’ve just gotta know why you called me. I almost started to forget about you at that point, there was even this girl named Persephone (I know what you’re thinking- “weird name, weird girl”- she is weird- but you always told me that being weird was a complement. Do you still live by that motto? Did you tell Gregory? Does he agree? I always agreed.)

That image of you from last month won’t leave my mind. You, seated in a light pink, silk (I’m sure very expensive), fitted suit. Your skirt went down to right below your hidden knee, the translucent tights covering your still exquisite, perfectly proportioned legs. Since when do you wear long skirts? I remember you at sixteen years old, skirts that ended just above your pink underwear, belly shirts that held offensive statements, lipstick so black that it made your skin look like the shell on an egg. (I loved it, though. I loved you throughout all of your fazes, even when you told me you were a nihilist and nothing mattered- I loved you.) Back to that image I was telling you about, the image of you sitting there with giant (also, very expensive looking) pearl earrings that made you look like my Granny Ann. Clear nail polish covered your once bitten nails (what’s the point of clear nail polish, anyway? It has no color…it’s a waste of money if you ask me. Does Gregory think it’s a waste of money? I bet he does but he just doesn’t tell you.) Your perfectly manicured hair was held tightly within what looked like a birds nest (you called it a “French bun”. How f***ing pretentious.

Our conversation was really quite awkward, I didn’t want to ask you why you asked me to see you, I thought it may seem rude and the last thing I wanted was for you to be insulted and kick me out. You’ve always had the tendency to leave when you had a problem, for example when Jane told you I cheated on you and you believed her right away and didn’t call me or talk to me for two weeks. Finally, Jane admitted it was an immature, annoying rumor that she started. You should’ve known I would never cheat on you. I wonder if Gregory has ever cheated on you with those Russian prostitutes I’ve heard rich men use when they get bored of their wives. No, Lucy, I’m not calling you boring. You know I could never think you’re boring. If you had married me instead of that f***ing sack of tomatoes I would have slept with you and only you for the rest of my life.

You lost your virginity to me. Do you remember? I was so nervous with my pale, scrawny body. You were so very beautiful (not model beautiful, but girl-next-door beautiful. I wouldn’t work well with a girl who looked like a model anyway. Too many expectations.) I recall every detail of this night perfectly within my mind, your black laced bra, me hitting my head, a tear scrolling down your pinkish face as I stared deep into your eyes. It was the type of night that poets attempt their whole lives to record, that movies are based off of. It wasn’t a poem or a movie, it was real life. We were real and so close to perfection I even felt like I touched it sometimes.

Why did high school have to end so soon? What the f*** am I doing with my life? Thirty two years old and still living in a one bedroom piece-of-s*** apartment. Why aren’t you seated here with me instead of sitting with that man you don’t love? You once told me that “you can tell love by the way someone looks into your eyes”. I saw a picture of you two on Facebook looking into each others eyes and there was nothing, Lucy. Do you hear me? Nothing.


I think I’m done Lucy. No, I don’t think I’m done I know I’m done. I know I’m done with loving your piano, I know I’m done with thinking of you everyday, I know I’m done with this stupid letter or whatever this thing really is. You don’t have to answer. Actually, you do have to answer. I’m not going to pretend I don’t care what you have to say because I always will care what you have to say.

Bye for now, Lucy.