A Chinese girl was
holding a musical instrument in her hands. It was a clarinet. She was wearing a
checkered skirt, black tights and a white blouse. The late summer day was
beautiful, almost as beautiful as the darkness and the intensity of her hair. The
girl was standing on the pavement, waiting for a car to pick her up and take
her home.
“It’s awful”, he said.
She felt sick in her
mouth, and she didn’t know what to say. Back in the day, he told her that it
was always worth it, dating a girl who can play a musical instrument.
“Why?” she asked, her
English frail and funny-sounding in those days.
“Because if you break
up with her, it is always your fault”.
Today, he accused her
and said she was the one to blame. And she barely said a word, which made him
so angry and so red in the face.
“Goodbye”, she said.
There was a band
playing behind her back. She listened up. The singer was mumbling too much, and
it was difficult to make out the words. The band was doing some folk-rock
covers, and as far as she could tell, they had no imagination and not much
skill. Well, perhaps she could help them. Unpack her clarinet and join in.
She turned around, and
it was him. His face, again, telling her how beautiful she was and how they
should all play together. She thought she did not want that, and turned back
facing the road.
The car was late. And
in the meantime, she remained standing still, this beautiful Chinese girl with
a musical instrument.
