Crossing the Velvet Rope
The spinet was beautiful, all polished wood and ivory keys. Sitting on display for all to see, secure, untouchable behind the velvet rope. Should I? I looked left and right, then back at the stool with its yellow, crushed velvet fabric. Just one tickling of the ivories and I’d return to my place as an admirer. Still no witnesses as I lifted one leg over the ropes. I wobbled. I felt a wave of guilt. My foot returned to the floor, to this side of the velvet rope and an admirer I remain.