The cup of iced coffee in my hand was starting to sweat, and so was I. The air conditioning in the room had broken down, so everyone was opening their windows, slumping into their chairs, and refusing to work.
I finished my coffee, which was just bland brown sludge now and went to throw it in the trash. When I got there, though, it was nowhere to be found.
“They put it outside,” Jameson said, fanning himself with his company ID. “It was starting to smell in here. Someone had thrown their tuna sandwich.”
We scrunched our noses in unison.
“Thanks.”
I went out and saw the trash overflowing with paper cups. “Maybe there’s another trash can somewhere,” I said aloud for the benefit of Christopher, who was skulking behind me, perhaps ready to snitch to the office manager.
I walked down the hall and turned right towards the elevator. I rode it to the eleventh floor.
It had been months, and I never had a reason to drop by. I didn’t need to, but I wanted to. I wanted to see if I hadn’t been hallucinating on my first day, if I saw an actual woman in room 1105. Maybe it was the nerves? Maybe she was a ghost?
I walked to the room and crossed myself. Please don’t be a ghost, please don’t be a ghost.
I knocked, heard nothing, but twisted the knob anyway.
The first thing I noticed was the red flower-patterned wallpaper filled with painted portraits of different women. In the center was a large ceramic mosaic of Frida Kahlo. The leather chair was replaced by a reddish-brown sofa, and there was a mahogany media cabinet with three shelves of vinyl records. A turntable was in one corner of the room, which looked bigger than the last time.
How is this possible?
And in the middle of the room stoodshe. She looked the same but also different. She was wearing high-rise bell-bottom jeans and a red sequined halter top. Her dark hair was artfully styled in big, wavy curls swept away from her face. Her skin was a lighter brown than mine, but this time it was shiny, like she had thrown a few flecks of silver dust on her arms. She sparkled.
“You’re late,” she said. And this time, she smiled.
My chest warmed.
She reached out a hand, and I nearly stumbled on my feet as I rushed inside the room. It was like a bubble had burst. Something warm washed over me. My heart beat in a frenzied rhythm as I grabbed her hand. She pulled me closer. I couldsmell lavender on her.
“I want you to hear this,” she said and led me to another corner of the room, which held a grand piano.
How did it get here? Why did they say this room was unoccupied? Who is she?
I had so many questions, but none of them mattered—not even the one about her identity—as soon as she played the piano. It wasn’t a familiar melody, but it should have been. The way the chords struck something in me felt nostalgic.
She paused, then played the chords again. She looked at me with patient expectation.
“What song is this?”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t have a title yet.”
“Who’s the artist?”
“You.”
“Huh?”
She rose and walked towards me. Our faces were just inches apart, yet neither of us wanted to cross this imaginary boundary. There was something between us, some sort of mystery and desire I couldn’t rationalize. I wanted to move closer, but I wanted her to reach out to me first. I was terrified that if I made the first move, she would crumble in my hands.
“Do you remember the melody?” she asked.
“The what?”
“The music. The song. I need you to remember it.”
“I’m—I’m not actually a musician—”
