The space was a tad too intimate for Bix’s liking, but, given his current financial standing, or perhaps lack thereof, he wasn’t in a position to complain. Small cushioned chairs and wooden tables lined the far, wall-length windows, so close that he could reach out and touch them from where he sat at the piano bench. A portion of the high, white counter pressed into his shoulders, and he leaned against it, tilting his head back with the quietest of sighs. Acrid, bitter scents of ground coffee beans filled his nose, strong and unpleasant enough to evoke a grimace. From somewhere deep within the treacherous bowels of the kitchen he could smell something baking; or, rather, burning. It’s no wonder that not a soul sat among this graveyard of empty chairs and cobweb-filled coffee mugs. Wedging the tip of his shoe into the space between the floor tiles, Bix lowered his chin to stare over at the ivory piano keys. Looking at them, a small, gentle, smile spread itself across his lips as it lifted a hand to stoke the keys, fingertips just barely grazing their pearl-smooth surface. They didn’t seem as though they belonged here, in this dim, dingy, rundown coffee shop. They seemed far too perfect, too noble. Still, pianos weren’t meant for display; the way he saw it, Bix felt that they would be unhappy that way. Shifting his jaw, he cuffed the sleeves of his white button-down shirt and straightened his back, fingers poised and ready. Time to do what both he and the piano were meant to do: make music.