The Unfinished – Thom C. Addington

March 17, 2026

“Can I get some fucking service, please?”
He kept swinging his leg out and letting his heel fall against the metal chair he was seated in.
Thunk. “Hello?” Thunk. “Hello?” Thunk.
“Fuck’s sake.”
The next tinny thunk matched that of the lights being thrown on, shuddering to life.
“Finally.”
“We’re not,” the woman said, “trying to keep you, Mr. Anderson.”
“Let’s get this on the road,” Mr. Anderson said, “start this baby up.”
“There are protocols to be followed,” the woman said.
She took the cap off a blue BIC pen to check boxes on his form; the pen didn’t work.
She went to the side table and turned over the clutter for the black BIC pen.
“Animals,” the woman said looking at the tooth-mangled cap.
“It says what?” Mr. Anderson asked.
“Nothing new,” the woman replied. “This is all just a kind of ‘tuning-up.’”
“That’s pretty funny,” Mr. Anderson said.
He thought about his last concert—Schubert’s 8th in B minor. Rosin, sweat, a warm battery.
“‘Unfinished,’ my ass,” Mr. Anderson mumbled.
“Oh, no,” the woman replied, “we’re not quite there yet. We’re waiting on a few more.”
“You could’ve sat me at the bar and I’d be done by now,” Mr. Anderson chuckled.
The woman did not reply.
He loved going out after something gutsy like Grieg’s 1st—when he felt like a maestro.
“When are they going to get here?” Mr. Anderson asked.
“Two are already here,” the woman replied. “They’re waiting on their mother.”
Mr. Anderson said nothing.
His mother had never come. Not to any of his concerts. Not one. He would have liked her to have seen him play Tartini’s Sonata in G Minor; he’d snapped clean through a string, and it sliced him across the cheek. No one said anything after—he played straight through and stuck his tongue out the side of his mouth to catch the blood before it hit his violin’s bridge.
He knew the audience by their silhouettes through the window blinds.
Soon, the blinds would come up.
The woman put her clipboard on the edge of the side table and laid the black BIC pen on top.
As she walked from the room, Mr. Anderson peeked at the form.
He chuckled. “Now she’s in a hurry.”
She’d already penned in the time of death.