surrogacy

I'd imagined the rooms switched around. They were the right colors, the browns and yellows and dark rose, but I hadn't foreseen the air of formality, and I'd pictured them stretched the other way, like my mind had held up a mirror to reality. The piano was out of tune, yellowed but hallowed, the way I thought it would be, and I'd imagined, a year ago, that I'd sit down absently, mid-thought, and play from memory a Beethoven sonata. I was right, and I was wrong, because when I was actually in the room, in the moment, it was an invitation, and the music was already laid out above the keys. The same sonata--the one I'd thought of memorizing, just for this instance and didn't because I forgot how--was waiting for my fingers. And I played the piece, stumbling a little, but right into the lap of the listener, and forget what I'd imagined, this was better.
We exchanged Christmas gifts--a delicate dove ornament for a blue egg of Silly Putty--and we both thought we'd gotten the better end of the deal.