“Thank you, Antonio.”
“You look like a ghost who lost her haunting,” he’d said, offering a peeled tangerine. lil rae black antonio mallorca
Antonio was already there, hands resting on the keys. “Thank you, Antonio
Rae almost laughed. “Maybe I’m between jobs.” ” he’d said
He smiled, a little sad. “Thank you , little rae. You reminded me why I started playing music in the first place.”
Antonio was seventy-three, a retired jazz pianist with knuckles like walnuts and eyes the color of the Mediterranean before a storm. He’d played in Barcelona and Paris, then walked away from it all to grow taronges —oranges, he explained, “that taste like sunshine and spite.”