I rent my head to a man I never met.
He lives in the basement.
He pays no rent, but he has an orchestra. Not the philharmonic kind you see at Lincoln Center. His is extravagant, violins with cracked necks, trumpets that cough, drums forever slipping in and out of time.

Most days they rehearse softly.
The cellos hold a single low note that seems to go on for weeks.
The trumpets keep watch in the dark, certain they hear trouble long before it arrives.
The drums wait until I’m almost at peace, then strike like lunatics.

The man never speaks to me. But sometimes I feel him leaning against the basement door, listening to my footsteps upstairs

Last Thursday, an old friend met me in the bakery. I saw the way she looked at me when she mentioned my exhaustion, polite, but precise. That was all. The drums took it personally. The trumpets sounded alarms. The cellos began their sad slow river of regret. Within minutes, the whole building was shaking.

People on the street thought it was the wind.

By evening, the music was gone again. I never hear them leave. They are just down there, patient.

Life upstairs goes on as usual.
Still, some nights I wake with a song in my head I’m sure I have never heard.