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She couldn't carry the xylophone much further. The plastic handle of the suitcase was already becoming a companion to the bones in her other hand and her scarlet stilettos gnawed on her toes in protest of every hobbling step.
"Damn you, Howard," she mumbles, limping over the broken pavement as the xylophone trailed. It mocked her with every bounce of its plastic wheels . It laughed at her. A airy, chiming, obscene giggle. Haha, Clara. Look at me, I'm having so much fun. Can't you see my smile?
Its keys seemed to refract every headlight, every stoplight, every streetlamp. The xylophone's smile reflected the light that shone through the windows of an empty office; the glint that danced along the street player's saxophone; the smothering glow of starvation that came from the homeless man's face.
And then she stumbled upon a raised slab of concrete. As she fell and caught a glimpse of her own smeared visage, the xylophone giggled.