This can’t be that hard, Jack thought, sitting down in front of the piano. He took a deep breath, stretched out his fingers (He was sure he’d seen a piano player – Pianist? Pianoteer? Something. – do that once), and turned his attention to the keys. White and black stared up at him as he tried to conjure his old memories.
“Yes, I studied the piano,” he’d told her, smiling and holding a glass of champagne. “I was very good. A bit out of practice, of course.”
Then she’d called his bluff, whether because she thought he was telling the truth or because she knew he wasn’t. Now he was up in front of a crowd on a piano. Every eye was fixed on him.
But he had taken piano lessons. He was sure of that. All he had to do was call back those twenty year old memories and he might be able to fool them for a minute.
He looked out all the faces. She was in the back, smiling what was either an “I’m being supportive and I like you” smile or a “Got you good, you lying loser” smile.
What did I do at my lessons?
Then he remembered.
Ah, yes. I quit.
Word Count: 200
This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner Week #21. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge. Photo is from pixabay.com.