Free Piano in the Dark by Eric Pete Page B

of a vampire hiding from an unyielding sun. Rather than proceed with pressing the button, I walked toward him. We met at the bottom of her steps where we exchanged looks.
    “Hello,” the thin-faced man with a wisp of blondish white hair said, his older, lined face revealing neither intimidation nor antagonism. He held out his hand, obliging me to take it.
    “Hello,” I offered in kind, unsure of my feelings toward the stranger whose hand I was shaking. I knew with whom he’d just visited and wondered if he’d ever delighted in Ava’s smile…or more. Then he broke into an odd grin, snapping me out of my rabid speculation.
    “You must be Chase.”
    “Yes,” I responded flatly. Who in the fuck was he to know my name?
    The stranger chuckled to himself. “Smith Sampson,” he offered. A name reserved for either an aristocrat or porn star. Probably the former, I supposed, from the look of things. Of course I could be completely wrong. “I can’t believe Ava found you.”
    “Ava,” I echoed, seeing red that this man not only knew about me, but knew her by her real name. I was married, so it shouldn’t have mattered. But it did. I chuckled then. My turn. Two roosters having a jolly old crow-off on the steps of the henhouse. And what did he mean by her finding me? “You don’t use her pseudonym,” I said, continuing.
    “That Charla Nuttier thing? Heavens no,” he said with a scoff. He laughed again, making me feel insignificant when I’d come here to feel important. To relish in feeling…special. Like maybe I could make the right choices in someone’s eyes. “Can’t say Ava doesn’t have a sense of humor with that one. Well, I must be off. Things to do. It was nice meeting you, sir. Ava’s a very special lady…as I’m sure you know.”
    “Take care,” I said as I stepped aside. I waited for several seconds before ambling up the stairs to Ava’s door. Before knocking, I took one final look at the man, this Smith Sampson, as he walked to the black BMW 750 taking up two parking spaces. I yearned to know Ava better than he. Then I knocked on her door, two short raps from my knuckles.
    The door swung open wildly, Ava in mid-conversation before I could see her. “You forgot something?” she asked, being startled. “Oh. Hey, Chase!”
    “Can I come in?”
    “Of course. I didn’t know you were coming over,” she said, wrapping her arms around me. She smiled from behind those bookish Coach glasses of hers, wearing a tunic smeared with dried paint., which eased my random thoughts about her visitor Smith for the moment. We kissed before I abruptly ended it.
    “Yeah. Missed you. You busy?” I asked, withholding the bottled-up affection I held for her.
    “For you? Never. I was just in the middle of therapy.”
    “Therapy?” I asked, remembering what Jacobi had said and wondering if the thin, older man I’d met outside was more doctor than love doctor.
    “My painting,” she said, motioning me to follow her to a room I hadn’t been in before.
    “Oooh,” I gasped for effect, having my opening.
    “When you said t herapy , I thought you meant like psychological. And that the man I met on your steps was…” I held it out there on the wind from my lips, leaving it to her to clarify.
    “You met Smith? He’s my patron, silly,” she said, shaking her head. She continued, “What did he tell you?”
    “Nothing really,” I replied. Ava grasped the door handle, pausing to analyze my statement and assess what my eyes revealed. After another fleeting smile, she flung open the door to her world.
    The spare bedroom was draped in white sheets, shielding furniture and whatnot. Four easels occupied the center, forming a semicircle with displayed canvasses in various stages. A group of completed works off to our immediate left were purposely arranged in a row beside stacks of frames. The woman had a damned assembly line, engaging in a chase of whatever fleeting memories or phantoms besieged her. A paintbrush