By seven the parlor grand had already laid out saucers, one for each key, the china no larger than a fingernail. Nobody had to pour. The steam simply arrived, pale and polite, waiting for a chord to sit down.
We asked at the bakery across the street. "I heard a clink," said a man with a warm loaf, "and then the lid stood up as if it had been invited." A neighbor in the queue whispered that the black keys always let the white ones sniff the tea first. The rumor turned out to be almost true: they take turns, and the pedal nods only when both rows have finished saying good morning.
A day later the same man came back with an extra cup. The lid was already warm from the kettle. Someone had written in the thanks book, in very small letters: the waltz tasted kinder after breakfast.