The Last Rose of Shanghai

by Weina Dai Randel

There is a kind of love that strikes like a thunderbolt; it blinds you, yet opens your eyes to see the world anew.

He began to play again, a tender tap, a loving stroke, and a lingering press, and using long fingers, he let his fingertips kiss the keys like his lips would fall on her. Gently, longingly, he began to play Debussy’s Clair de Lune.