The man strides into the room; everything about him seems purposeful and tidy. His grey hair is brylcreamed neatly to the side and combed flat, his grey trousers and light blue v-neck jumper sit comfortably around his tall and full frame.
He sits at the piano and draws himself slightly closer. He removes his hearing aides and places them on the top of the instrument. His fingers flex and he places them over the familiar keys and begins to play. He keys beautifully; his fingers following the notes in his mind. His wife enters. She stops by the door out of sight and watches him with a mixture of frustration and love. “Frank” she says. “Frank” she shouts. He continues playing completely unaware of her presence and begins to falter slightly; a note here and there missed or out of tune. She watches helplessly as his fingers quicken, trying to reclaim the rhythm that has escaped them. She watches as the tension rises up his back and his proud head and shoulders slacken until, turning out of the door, she can watch no longer. She retreats into some other part of the house and waits until he is finished.
She calls, “Frank”. As she re-enters the room she calls his name again and crosses to his stooped frame on the stool, touching him lightly on the shoulder until he turns. She takes hold of his face at the chin and says directly. “Frank, it sounded wonderful.” He reaches for his aides and puts them in adjusting them while they emit a high pitched squeal. “Really?” he says. “I thought I might have missed one or two?” He looks at her hopefully. “No dear,” she replies, “it was perfect. Tea?” she says with a little sigh as she walks towards the door.