Ordinary Time

My boss, married four times, is ring-less right now. I am the leaver, not the one left, in my own situation, which has led me to demonstrate these red, green, yellow, and white pianos in the store window. It’s a living. The shop was part of the boss’s latest divorce settlement, the janitor tells me. Was he included, I want to ask but do not. He waits for me to start playing, mop in pail, as if he suddenly can’t work without accompaniment. Then I see that the boss has put in earplugs. There are no customers. Only the janitor is listening. He’s wearing the same look my husband did when he found himself in the middle of some mess he’d made. I have no idea how long it will take for me to love the idea of freedom again, but I’ve already forgotten his smell. I lift my fingers over the keys. The janitor flicks open a metronome by mistake. It ticks like a tail wagging.