The waiter brought the mug from the front bar, just like the singer had requested: half full of white wine. The crowd was different through here, the buzz of the front bar seemed another world.
He left the mug by the piano and smiled at the singer.
She was sitting by the window, singing about some arsehole who had ripped her off. The little crowd in the back room was half watching, half studying their phones. They weren’t here for her, but when she hit the chorus and her voice lifted…
They stopped.
They looked up.
A few smiled.
A head nodded.
And then.
Then they went back to their coffee.
Their phones.
Their conversations.
But she played on, a strand of her hair falling down over her face.
She played: G down to E. And sang: “The blue lights are shining tonight.” And again: “Sometimes we rise. Two souls in the light.”
She settled the notes down.
To the major, the minor, fourth, and back.
She whispered, “Sometimes we fall.”
She heard another voice. She turned around.
It was Frankie, from the front bar.
Everyone else was gone.
She smiled.
His voice, baritone.
She played it again, and he sat by her at the piano. She played the chords gently. Swooping down low and rising back up.
He placed his hand by the keys, at the top of the piano.
His fingers were rough.
Worn.
A lifetime of work.
She played round the chord progression.
And this time he played a few notes.
Like footsteps in the snow.
“Sometimes we fall. Sometimes we rise.”
The music got stronger.
Their voices connected, rising together.
He laughed.
She smiled.
She looked out the window.
Saw the people on the street.
A few heard the music.
Looked up.
Smiled.
Or shook their heads.
At the two ghosts.
Playing,
just for themselves,
just because they could.
© Paul Andrew Sneddon
Paul Andrew Sneddon 