The man, who looked like he was maybe ten or so years older than Emily, smiled at her as he finished the tune, his fingers moving without him paying attention to them anymore. “You’re my best audience tonight,” he said. “I saw you fingering along with me. You play?”

Emily looked down at the Steinway. “I used to,” she told him.

The pianist transitioned from “Gingerbread Boy” into “Blue Skies.” “You’re looking at this piano the way I looked at a bottle of vodka before I got sober,” he said to her. “Good news for you is that a piano won’t rot your liver.”

Emily laughed.

“You wanna play?” he asked. “I’m due for a break anyway. They were going to pipe some music in for fifteen minutes, but I’d be happy to let you take over instead.”

“I couldn’t,” Emily said, even though she wanted to sit down on that piano bench so badly she could feel the desire pulsing through her body, traveling from her heart to her wrists to her fingertips.

“I saw how your fingers move,” the pianist said. “I’m pretty sure you could. How ’bout I slide over and you give one song a go? If I’m wrong and you can’t really play, I’ll just take over again and finish up with one more song before my break.”

Emily looked down at the piano and then flexed her fingers. She hadn’t touched a piano in nearly thirteen years. But she found her fingers playing imaginary keys all the time—scales on her knees while riding the subway, chords along with the radio while waiting for takeout, whole theme songs while she was watching TV. Was it like riding a bike? Like swimming? Or would she sit down on that bench and fail spectacularly?

“I’ll try a song,” she said, her heart speeding up in anticipation or fear or another emotion she wasn’t quite able to name.

The pianist finished “Blue Skies” and slid to his left on the piano bench. Emily gathered up the skirt of her gown and sat next to him.

“Do you need music?” he asked.

Emily shook her head. She took a deep breath and laid her hands lightly on the keys. The piano was beautiful. The keys were smooth and gleaming. It felt familiar, like putting on a favorite sweatshirt on the first cool night of summer.

“Does it have to be jazz?” Emily asked the pianist, putting her hands in position to start the “Maple Leaf Rag,” though not sure if she’d be able to remember enough to get through the whole song.

“Play whatever you want,” he said.