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Fiction Short Story

by Les Combs

The Piano

I sit in my new apartment, first night alone; just me and a cold Sam Adams. Indifferent and unfocused I stare at the television. Cheerless. The No Spin Zone fails to revive me.

Like tinkling raindrops music seeps through the wall, awakes my conscious mind. Someone's playing a piano in the next apartment. I mute the television and melt back into my recliner to listen. It can't be Fats Waller, but he's playing "All My Life," stride-style. I picture dark stubby fingers in blurred flight, a flock of starlings rising. Memory recalls the lyrics in Waller's hoarse voice. I am transported. And then the music ends, folds in on itself and fades into wistful silence.

I take another beer from the refrigerator, hurry into the hallway and knock on his door—too loudly, I think. The sound of security locks opening, and she's standing in front of me. Brown eyes with flecks of gold calmly appraise. Behind her a Baldwin upright stands in ebony stillness.

"You're the pianist?" I ask, surprised in my gender-biased assumption. She's almost as tall as I, blonde hair tumbling onto the shoulders of her Cal Poly sweatshirt. Her fingers are not dark, not stubby.

"That's who I am," she answers, a quirky smile turning up one corner of her full mouth. "Was I disturbing you?" There doesn't seem to be a lot of regret in the question.

"No. I mean, yes." I always was good with words. "What disturbed me was the music stopped. You know, like that old tune "The Song Has Ended But The Melody Lingers On."

She opens the door wider and says, breathes actually, "I think you had better come in."

I step inside, uncap the Sam Adams and she accepts, takes a sip. "Could you play some more?"

She motions toward a couch and I sit. She glides easily onto the piano bench. After a few tentative notes she begins "What A Little Moonlight Can Do" in Teddy Wilson fashion. Improvisational runs above the left-hand notes excite, captivate, enthrall. The second time through, she sings the words. Her voice is sultry, somewhere this side of Billie Holiday. I close my eyes and let the magic wash over me.

When it ends we remain silent and motionless for long seconds. She rises and takes two diamond rings from the piano top and slips them on her finger. "I think you'd better leave now. My husband will be home soon." She hands me her near-full bottle and escorts me to the door.

"Thank you, it was beautiful," I tell her before returning to my apartment. I survey the emptiness, sigh and sink into my recliner. It's just me, Sam Adams and Bill O'Reilly.

© Copyright 2003 Les Combs


About the Author
Les is a California native retired in Arkansas. His interest in jazz goes back to the first record he owned, a 78 r.p.m. of Tommy Dorsey's "We'll Get It."