The tips of her fingers skitter over the piano keys, nails chipped and varnished in metallic black. The melody weaves a time-slowing magic around her, around the people listening.
She closed her eyes and let her fingers run up the piano. These keys are lighter to the touch than those at her school and brighter in sound. High quality for people of higher class, she supposed. She let her muscle memory take over, fingertips nimbly running down the scales. A small breeze grazes her bare arms and involuntarily, goosebumps rise. This high-end restaurant with people who only talked in low voices, people with glistening professionally-styled hair and flashes of gold on their apparel would always put her off, no matter how often she played here.
She sighed a tiny sigh as her fingers went through the motion.
In the meantime, she will be playing here every Friday nights, a lonely soul among lonely souls, false bright tones rising above muted conversations and too-expensive food.