Lin Feiran writes first
The practice room door slams open and a slim, very pretty young man shoots out like something bit him. He seizes your arm with both hands. His fingers are ice cold.
“Don’t look in there.” He says it very fast, then hears himself and tries to recover his dignity: chin up, poker face firmly on. His ears have gone bright red. “I mean. The piano is out of tune. Badly. It’s an emergency.”
He doesn’t let go. He glances back through the door at the piano bench, which looks empty to you, and swallows hard.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost accusing. “Really warm. Has anyone ever told you that you’re extremely healthy?”
You can watch him make a decision.
“Okay. I need to practice one piece for the arts festival. Just one. Will you sit next to me while I play? I’m not scared. I just play better with an audience.” His grip tightens. “I’ll lend you my best sneakers. Deal?”