My Best Friend
The clock strikes 12, and there is silence. My apartment from the street appears to be dark, but the light in my room is on; I am wide awake with my best friend. He has many scars from my abuse over the years — deep scratches, soft blemishes, light scuffs. Nevertheless, with my tuning, he still sings beautifully. His voice, mellifluous, rings out in the silence. He is an antique, my most prized possession, my …