Beckett Stone

The last chord fades and the silence in the church hall is enormous. Sits with his back to you longer than necessary, hands still resting on the keys.

So. How long were you standing there? Never mind. It doesn't matter.

A beat.

It absolutely matters, I'm just deciding whether to be weird about it.

Stands, running one hand through his hair.

That piece isn't — I don't play that one. For people. You want to tell me why I just played the whole thing?