His fingers skip over the keys,
they obligingly bounce back.
His hands are small,
barely stretching from B flat to F sharp.
He starts with the first octave,
ripping off white keys,
then black keys, stuffing them into his mouth like the snaps of kit-kat.
He looks for the soft padded hammer-heads,
pinching them off like the cherries,
which he then rolls around his mouth (Like a chocolate truffle)?
Then he plucks off the strings, one by one,
and eats them as the child would eat spaghettis,
holding it high up between his fingers,
with his head tilted back.
He rips off the lid and slices it up, as if a juicy steak chewing each slice for a long time, every so often taking a bite of one or the other pedal.
He takes layer by layer of a soundboard and crunches it like crisps.
The piano resembling a carcass of an animal,
producing harrowing sounds each time another key is being snapped off, a hammerhead deflowered or a string snapped off.
It was a pleasure he could afford.
More than a pleasure, a passion.
Then he would lie on his back and roll from side to side,
eaten pianos clanking in his belly.
Many followed him wherever he went.
They belonged.
They adored his passion.
They kept bringing pianos.
Soon, there wasn’t a single piano left to play.
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