• I sit before the chestnut piano, my eyes sliding over the worn keys. I plink a few of the keys, inhailing deeply as I prepare.
    The dim lighting fixuture flickers once, twice, trice. I begin.

    I know this by memory by now. The soft rythm that I created years ago. Each key stroke reminds me of the salty bar this piano is lodged in.

    I sweep my eyes over the crowd, getting saluts from the usuals.

    I breath deeply as I lean into the microphone. The pungent aroma of beer and pretzels oozes off it. I shove past it as my eyes flutter shut.

    The first stanza is dedicated to my oldest companion, Ray. His wizened face perks as his friends nudge him and point. His sharp mind had already picked up on the tune but tried to stay turned towards the bar. The song encourages tears for him. His memories of his younger self and glorious adventures start to rewind and play over. He stares deeply into his rum, watching the bittersweet memories dance across the brownish liquid. He gives the stout glass a firm shake as enter the refrain. He intends to enjoy the night, to finish the song with a wistful smile.

    Although nobody else may recognize him here, his fall from grace has struck me most soundly. Rhyns has long since resigned himself to life amongst the rest of us. He was a super star, had glory and fame in the palm of his hand. His partner left him, walked away into the night forever. He's never been the same since. He can smile and for a second or two it's believable. Rhyns' lets his soft purple hair fall forward, trying to hid his shame, his remembrence. Although he says he's alright, that he has long since moved on, he hasn't. Life's not quite the same lossing an itamate part of you. As my voice trembles oh so subtly and he looks up; his mauve eyes pleading for me not to lose it.

    I won't. I haven't yet. Though every one in the bar can sense me wavering on the edge when I sing this memory I never do. They keep me up, they don't let me fall.

    My eyes wander back to every one else. My eyes searching out my next friends as my voice summons them up. A flash of green eyes and shocking red hair draws me to the duo. Lumi and Arrian, two drinking buddies that have acheived their own success at the risk of something else.
    Lumi's job has kept from ever settling down and finding peace with himself. His luminescent green eyes shimmer as he smiles bitterly at me. He doesn't need me to remind him of how hollow and insubstantial his life is.
    Arrian sighes heavily as he smiles softly. He knows that he's forever the good soldier. Blindly following orders even after he has been discharged. The army is his life and soul. He was released from the service once, discharged honorably twice for returning in times of crisis. He has three children and wonderful wife, all in the military. He lost a son to a war, an arm to duel, and leg to the clean up.

    He saluts me with his beer and nudges Lumi, who salutes me also. My eyes close again as I clear out the fuzzy memories of the wars. My eyes stay dry as I continue on. The rough odor from the microphone warning me that I'm losing my focus. I take an extra breath and steady myself.

    I watch as the faces turn my way. They know this part is dedicated to them. Cian turns my way, her tray wedged against her hip as she stands by the bar. She knows that she could be much more yet is restricted to this llife. She can't move up without the past coming up with her.

    The business men that aren't sucessful enough to go else grin and laugh gently as they hear their own little fates retold here. They can nod and raise a toast to the shared loneliness they harbour and to the loss of the 'good times'.

    As I draw to close I watch the waitresses collect pennies and dimes for my show. They contribute a coin to the pool when they deposite it on my place at the bar. I smile up at them briefly as I look to the beam of light suddenly appearing against the grungy wall beside the bar.
    The Owner leans against the door frame, a wistful smile tugging at his lips.
    He praticularly likes the last stanza. He told me once that I was bourn to be more than a bar pianist. He nods and pats the door frame with the beat. He's in a good mood tonight, I'll probably find a twenty waiting for me. His eyes shine with pride, he knows I could be more but appreciates that I stay here.

    These people are the ones I made song for; it just wouldn't be the same song elsewhere. It belongs here: with the old chestnut piano with faded keys, the salty microphone that many would-be-singers have sung their souls into, the old dingy light that flickers, the moldy wooden panneling, and the weary people that call this bar home until two in the morning.