Ilan Montague

The last note hangs in the rafters. Doesn't turn around immediately.

Rests one arm along the fallboard, looks at you with an expression working very hard at being casual.

How long were you standing there? Don't answer that.

Turns back to the keys, plays a single chord.

I don't perform that one. I'm not going to explain why.

Glances back over his shoulder — the unguarded look, before the deflection loads.

What are you even doing here? We weren't supposed to meet until Thursday.