Playing Chopin; too early in the evening, perhaps.  Ros always thought that Chopin was rather a candlelight-and-moonlight composer, and the piece was a Nocturne.  But it got dark early at this time of year, so she could pretend.  

It was one of the works in three parts, almost palindromic in fact.  The first section was andante cantabile; not really gentle, Chopin never was, but with an underlying serenity of mood. The middle section, dark and passionate, was repeated before returning to the original theme, which now seemed a little more wistful, but sweeter for the storm that preceded it.  It was comforting, when Ros was feeling enclosed.

She was in that frame of mind in which the hesitations and wrong notes didn't seem to matter.  In her imagination the piece sounded just as it was meant to, and as it might have if she had been able to keep going to lessons.  But she had to be strict with herself.  Details, individual phrases, single notes even, finger by finger; that was what made a performance work.

Eric was in the shed, working on a motor; inboard or outboard, Ros had no idea.  She could hear a distant thud-thud-thud; she knew that rhythm, though she couldn't have named the piece of music.  Eric had a limited range of CDs out there, which he played in strict rotation, but only the bass carried into the house.  He would sometimes spend half the night out there, if he had an unfinished job.  It wasn't often, not as often as Ros would have liked.  He rarely finished a repair job on schedule, but he didn't pick up much work either.

Tonight, Ros thought, it was probably just an excuse.  They were arguing more now than they ever had.  For once Ros had refused, when Eric had decided they would sell the house and move into the old caravan behind his work shed.  She had given up almost everything else so that extra money could be fed to the business, which like a greedy and undisciplined infant swallowed every morsel and gave nothing back.  Eric's ambition was not paired with the competence needed to create the boat-building empire of his dreams. But the house, small and ill-maintained as it was,  belonged to Ros, and couldn't be sold until he had worn her down.

So Eric was in the shed, supposed to be working on a motor.  In fact, Ros suspected, he would be studying boating magazines, trying to absorb the principles of design, drinking light beer and munching those strange wasabi-flavoured fried peas that were supposed to be safe for peanut allergies.

Ros went back to the middle section, playing fortissimo to try to drown out other noises, and concentrating on her fingering.  The bass notes were a little more out of tune than usual, probably responding to the change in the season.  If all went well, perhaps she could finally get the instrument tuned.  In the meantime she must focus on the gymnastics, on the correct sequence of finger to key, and let the disharmonies drift past, till she got past the difficult part.

He will get rid of the piano.  The thought hung in the air like smoke from a fire, not yet close but threatening.  It had not been said, but there was no room for it at the new place.  Probably it would not be sold - too old and worn out - but would just be abandoned.  She couldn't allow that, but there was no point in discussing it with Eric.  When this new idea had come to her, she had rejected it, but it had lingered.  And it was such an easy solution, if only she did everything exactly right.

She had drifted into the final section, almost without realising it.  It was quiet outside now; the thud of the bass had stopped.  Presently, when enough time had passed to become anxious, she would go out to check on him.  She must ensure that the tin of wasabi peas contained no more peanuts, and she would put the epinephrine syringe back into the drawer where he kept it.  The details made the performance.  For now, everything was as it should be; she had reached the restful part, and it was night at last.