“What did you want to tell him?”“Just tell him that he’s a real piece of work,” Becky snapped. “Where did he meet you, anyway? Vegas? He c...n’t have known you for more than a few weeks.”“Don’t you believe in romance, Becky?” Natasha asked as she smirked at her. She was taunting her, unbelievable.“I just wonder which one was cheaper,” Becky hissed. “You, or the car?”She turned her back on the woman, storming off down the corridor.“Wait,” Natasha said, and Becky stopped to look back at. It was a cumbersome albeit strikingly beautiful, extra-large accordion that sounded better the louder it was played with the bellows fully opening and closing. Later, with my life so filled with sexual abuse, another even longer story, I was no longer thinking about pianos or accordions, when I finally fled my house at 18-years-old to live with my girlfriend. Beginning a new chapter in my life, I had more important things on my mind than pianos, accordions, and music. Now more than twenty years. More

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