Nobody's Listening, Nobody Cares

I used to be nervous playing piano. My sister taught me to play. My hands robotically hit notes, fearing failure. I thought of Dad, mustache bristling, waiting to dissect mistakes. I played without feeling, Nancy said.

“Nicky,” she said. “Think of it this way. Nobody’s listening, nobody fucking cares.”

I didn’t understand. But it became clearer. I had to pretend to be alone.

I drifted off when I played. With Tchaikovsky, I tried to capture the beauty of an autumn walk or cherry blossoms blowing in spring. My father’s words dissolved, I struck sharps, danced with flats, Nancy smiling, sweet, tender.









Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. Yash’s work is forthcoming or has been published in WestWard Quarterly, Café Lit, 50 Word Stories, (mac)ro (mic), and Ariel Chart. Yash currently lives in Idaho.

See more of Yash's work in 8.2 and 8.2 and 8.2 and Special Flash 50/50