The Tuner

He opens the lid like a man lifting the lid of a well, leans down to listen where the felt has gone the color of old teeth and a spider has strung its small impatience between two unstruck strings.

One note, then its truer twin — he holds them against each other the way you'd hold a photograph to the light, deciding which face is the one you actually loved.

All afternoon the house fills with a slow weather of almost, each string drawn tighter toward the pitch it has forgotten how to want, the wrench turning like a key in winter.

When he leaves, the room keeps humming under the closed black wing of the instrument. Somewhere a glass loosens on its shelf. The dust comes down the long bars of light and settles, finally, on something in tune.