The Great Grey

It was another day, just like any other. Peter felt off somehow. No. He knew exactly how. The exact vice did not matter. He had hit quite a few hard in recent weeks. Anything to numb the senses would have to do. By all accounts, he was an ingrate. Some people had to bow and scrape, selling themselves one dignity at a time to score a meal or find shelter for the night. The pianist did not have to work; his mother and brother provided him with unlimited resources. To Peter, the grass was not greener on the other side. Everything was a shade of grey that left him disenchanted with the world to the point he wanted to numb it all away. Unfortunately, nothing would prevent him from facing the overwhelming disappointment of life. His drug of choice always wore off, and all good parties came to an end.

Taking a reality check for the day, Peter visited one of his favorite museums. It was a different type of cope. If he could not numb away the darkest grey of his world, he could fill his cup with things that historically lightened the gloom. He knew most of the exhibits, but there were new exploits from Egypt to view. Peter was starting to wonder if there was something painfully wrong upstairs that a mummified corpse in all its fine linen wrapping brought him enough distraction to chase away the gloom without a mutually assured hangover. Death was a small comfort. Just when he thought he had experienced everything, there was something to look forward to. It was enough to make Peter laugh aloud. The jovial bark of amusement disturbed the reverent silence of the museum.

“Apologies… wait, have we met before?”

Peter glanced about himself after he laughed. He hoped no one was around, and just his luck, a woman with hair like fire was standing there. Something was familiar about her; an echo of a memory itched at the inside of his skull. They met before, but where? She might have been at one of his private concerts, but Peter never paid his audience attention. Peter only had a mind for the ebony and ivory playground when playing. Peter missed his playground but was shy of instructing or playing other men's compositions; he could not find it in him to compose. The pianist could not say if the gloom brought the block or if the block inspired the gloom. The two were inseparable when they arrived. Not that any of it mattered when he had the mystery of the woman in the museum rattling around in his braincage.

When time presented itself, Zelda liked to wander the exhibits. Their staff ensured everything was very well-kept from careless gestures and unruly children, but she always found a reassurance in clamping eyes on what she couldn't help but consider, in part, her own precious artefacts, however little she owned any of it.

Gauging reactions could be pleasant and informative, but she liked best the slower days, when there seemed no one but herself and the echo of her heels down the long rows of displays. Today, she turned into one of the Egyptian exhibits and drew up short, for there was a face she had seen before, albeit under much different circumstances.

The inside joke between the man and the mummy escaped her comprehension, but it hardly mattered: How curious to find him here, and alone as well. For a tick she considered whether he might have tracked down her employer, but she dismissed that notion almost immediately; he'd barely been capable of staying upright that night, much less recalling anything about her other than the broadest strokes.

Now, she sidled up beside him and let her gaze sweep over darling, desiccated Ramses in the case before them. "Has it come back to you yet?" she asked, and cast the man a sidelong glance.