perfect_pitch raze a masked man who's always late came to tune my piano for the sixty-fourth time today. he was three minutes early. before he touched anything, he told me all about his fancy phone. he told me how much it cost him. what he can't rely on it to do anymore. how the calendar has a habit of eating his appointments. how many times he's had to buy a new phone when he finds out his apps aren't supported anymore. i wanted to say, "for the love of whatever deity you do or don't worship, just shut up and do what you came here to do. i don't care about the overpriced small-scale computer that runs your life." but i listened, and i nodded, and i sighed behind a mask that was a melange of seven different colours. eight if you don't count white as the absence of colour. i wasn't paying much attention to his stupid phone stories. i was wondering about how old he is, and what day his birthday falls on, and how long it's been since he had anything to say that was worth hearing. i didn't get a chance to say much. for someone who has perfect pitch, he doesn't spend a lot of time listening. i don't hear the same way he does. i can spot tiny imperfections, but they don't bore into my brain like a pneumatic drill. what encourages him to leave the room makes me want to stay. i watched him work the thin fabric of his felt mute between the strings. i listened for the clack of the socket wrench being turned. he twisted each note into something almost unrecognizable so he could coax it back into being itself. he played single notes. then octaves. then fifths. when he was finished, he let his fingers form full chords. he's raised his price three times in the last fourteen years. he's stood me up and lied to me to make more money. when he speaks, all that comes out of his mouth is hot garbage. but when he lets his hands do the talking and he falls back on his training, he's an artist for the better part of an hour. and when i'm alone with my instrument again after he's gone, it always feels a little like coming home. 220509 what's it to you? who go blather from