The Pianist’s Counterpoint: Playing Solo

Five years after my breakup with Julian, we crossed paths again at a stall in the local fish market.

He was there to pick out fresh fish. I had just finished scaling one for another customer.

My mind went blank for a second, but I quickly grabbed the hand net. "Which one do you want?"

"That one. Gutted and scaled, please." He hesitated for a moment. "Clara’s craving fish soup lately. She says the market has fresher catch."

Right. Clara.

The same Julian who once took a single sip of the fish chowder I had simmered for three hours, only to push it away, claiming it tasted too fishy.