Piano Man

The thing leans slightly to the left; the bench sagging from long years of wear born of heart and love and passion that hadn’t lit his old bones in years. It is pressed up in a corner, cramped and clustered and dark, swathed in spindly gossamer webs and swaddled in an incurable sense of moribundity. It’s been a long, long time since he last laid eyes on her, and the sudden nostalgia brings around a rare moment of clarity; he clings to it, eases his eyes closed and leans back in his seat, drink forgotten.

The memories are as faded as the yellowed ivory keys; the feel of burnished tusk against his fingers, the oak pressing hard against the backs of his legs, melody clashing with pitch and the cascading baritone of his voice to create something shimmering, smooth, glittering prettily in the dim yellow light and twirling through the air. The sound rings in his ears, reverberates in his chest, and soon his heart is keeping time, music and music-maker unified by a rhythm locked within the intricate lacings of the past.

It isn’t long before the pain becomes too much.

The music dims to a low whine, and the aching feeling of an era passed rattles in his bones. The memories, previously covered in a thick layer of dust, tug doggedly at the folds of his skin and the sallow lines of his face, and it is all he can do not to think about them.

The process of disentangling himself from the past is incredibly slow going, and each heave is a little more difficult. If he isn’t careful, he’ll become trapped there- too enthralled with the prospect of what life once was, and is no more, and will never be again. Slowly, tiredly, he tucks his eyelids back into his skull, raps his knuckles against the bar, and takes another swig of brandy.

Play Me A Memory