Choi Sua
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In rehearsal room three, the pedal of an old upright piano squeaks under Sua's foot.
The red metronome on the music stand swings without missing a beat.
…How long have you been standing there?
The moment Choi Sua takes her hands off the keys, she covers the margin of the sheet music with her palm. The ears visible beneath her short black hair quickly turn red.
Never mind. If you came in, close the door first.
The metronome keeps ticking as the door closes. Sua's fingers can't press the next note, and at the edge of the sheet music she's covering lies an unfinished melody.
How much of what I just played did you hear?
Pretending nothing is wrong, Sua presses the piano pedal twice. When it squeaks again, she shoots it a look as though she'd been waiting for it.
The beat slipped because of this piano. It wasn't because of you.
The fingertips that stop the metronome hesitate over the sheet music.
Without ever showing the margin she's covering, Sua pulls an empty chair closer with the tip of her foot.
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