Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
The bar was becoming crowded and noisy. I loved working amongst the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses. The vibe of a bar was usually perfect, but it seemed as though the entire population of twenty-somethings had decided that this, seemingly uncool hotel bar, was the current hot spot in Vancouver.
I had been in the bar for two hours and had spread my paraphernalia—pens, notes, laptop—across the table. I sensed someone was watching me and I felt suddenly self-conscious and anxious. When I looked up, two gorgeous young things with the shortest of mini skirts were waiting expectantly and ready to pounce and claim my table. If only I knew of a quieter and a less crowded bar in which to write.
I also wondered why this bar was suddenly so packed on this particular night. I'd been coming here for five nights, and it had never been this busy, not even on the weekend. Something must be happening tonight. The mostly female patrons were animated and giggly and dressed to impress.
It was a Tuesday; maybe it was happy hour? I looked at clock on my laptop. It was 11:47pm.
Can't be happy hour, surely?
I attempted to gather my papers in order, and before I had even closed the lid on my laptop, the two slim wanna-be super-models dived towards me.
"Are you leaving?" they immediately placed their rather fruity but non-potent looking cocktails on the table and then stood straight and possessive.
"Yes, feel free to sit down" I smiled, and hastily assembled everything into my bag. I sculled the last dregs of my wine and headed through a sea of scantily clad bodies out the door.
Once I hit the lobby, the sound morphed from noisy bar to the whisperings of classical Debussy playing softly throughout the hotel's hidden speakers.
I paused. I didn't want to go back to my hotel room to write. I needed people around me, people to observe, people to make noise and interact. I couldn't write a thing cooped up alone in my room.
I trudged over to the concierge desk. It was Mike on duty. He was sweet and very helpful and I was sure he could suggest somewhere local I could go to get what I needed.
"Good evening Ms Swan, enjoying your evening?"
"Well, I'm busy with writing, but the bar is just so crowded tonight, and I can't really justify taking up a whole table to myself. There is obviously something exciting happening, and what I really need is somewhere not so crowded, but with people and a bar, and um, somewhere close-by, as I usually work through the night, and want it to be easy to come back to my room. Can you suggest any bars locally that fit the bill?"
I didn't know why I gave him so much information. I had the habit of rambling incessantly, especially to people that I didn't know well.
He looked pensive for a moment and then he leaned in and said, "We have a private bar on the 25th floor, it's open 24 hours and is only used by our VIP guests."
Mike leaned behind the desk and held up a purple unmarked swipe card. "Of course, I get to make the call on who is a VIP guest, so here". He handed it to me and smiled. "I think you'll find it an inspiring place to write and they have a larger selection of Australian wines than the lobby bar."
"Thanks heaps Mike!"
I had mentioned to Mike that I was homesick the first night I arrived. He had smiled at me knowingly and after I had set myself up in the lobby bar, a young waiter had approached my table with a bottle of Brokenwood Chardonnay 'with compliments'. I could have kissed him (and Mike), but instead I'd handed him a generous tip and thanked him about twenty times. It was amazing how much work I had gotten done once I had the familiar bottle in an ice bucket on my table.
Mike's smile interrupted me from my reverie and he stepped out from behind the concierge desk and guided me to the lift.
"Simply swipe the card over the card reader and press 25. The bar is at the end of the hall on the right. It doesn't look like a bar from the outside; just go on in. I'll let the bar-staff know you're on your way up." And with that, the lift doors opened and he told me to enjoy my evening.
Once in the lift I swiped the card and pressed the button for the 25th floor. I hadn't given Mike a tip. I think I should have, but I didn't know. I was still trying to get my head around what the etiquette was for tipping, but hey, he knew I was from Australia, so I'm sure he wasn't offended. I mentally reminded myself to give him one the next time I saw him.
I walked down the hall and looked at the door at the end. The only indication that I was in the right spot was a purple rectangular plaque on the door. It was the exact same shade of purple as the swipe card.
Wow, this must be a really exclusive bar.
I swiped the card and pushed on the door. When I stepped inside I was blown away.
The room was expansive, but my eyes were instantly drawn to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, revealing the city lights beyond. The shiny glass also reflected back the muted ceiling lights. There were intimate circular booths with glass-topped tables that were scattered around the outside of the room. The bar was on the far right along the wall. In the middle of the room stood a shiny black grand piano and a square of parquetry dance floor. The carpet was a rich burgundy and little candles in red glass holders flickered on each table. There were low plush chairs with knee height circular tables in clusters along the breadth of the glass windows. Beyond the glass was an intimate balcony, accessed by double glass doors that were propped open.
"Good evening Ms Swan."
A young and handsome waiter greeted me and offered to take my bag. He looked like he should be on the cover of a men's health magazine. His crystal clear blue eyes sparkled; his dirty blonde hair was pulled back neatly into a slick ponytail, secured at the nape of his neck. His lips kind of curled up at the sides in a smile that looked a little sexy. You could see the strain of his white cotton shirt across his broad shoulders. I could only imagine what a magnificently buff specimen he was underneath that shirt. I blushed at the thought.
I gingerly handed my bag strap to him and he led me to a booth that had a spectacular view of the room. It was the only table that didn't have a candle. Instead, it had a bright halogen light illuminating it, making the shiny black glass reflect a soft glow. I sat down and scooted across the deep red velvet upholstery to sit in the middle, my hands stretched out running across the lip of the table. It was the most opulent environment I think I'd ever been in. I looked over the piano admiring the view of the city lights beyond.
The waiter placed my bag delicately on the seat next to me.
"Please let me know if I can get you anything," he said, handing me the wine list that was luxuriously bound in red leather.
I let out the breath I was holding and he casually strode back to the bar. I noticed that the binder was marked with gold ribbon, and when I opened to the marked page the wines were displayed in order of price and the ones highlighted were Australian.
Mike was excellent at his job.
I instantly recognized my favorite and even the price was pretty reasonable. Before I could call the waiter back, he was standing in front of me as if he appeared from thin air, ready to hear my selection.
"I'll have a bottle of the Bridgewater Mill Sauvignon Blanc please."
"Certainly Ms Swan," and he retreated with a smile when I returned the list.
I leant back into the soft velvet and sighed. This was the life: luxury in Vancouver Canada. My mouth watered in anticipation for the wine that would soon be presented to me and I felt instantly re-energized as I hurriedly unpacked my bag: laptop, notes, pen.
It made me giddy to think that just seven days ago I was busily packing in my apartment in Sydney, Australia. I was on the trip of a lifetime, to visit a foreign country with the sole purpose of finishing my novel and using the prize money that I just simply never thought I would win.
How lucky could a girl get?
I visited the 'purple' bar every night at about 10pm. I knew I really should have gotten over my jet lag by now and been living on Vancouver time, but I was on a writing roll and I didn't want to disrupt it. There is nothing worse than writer's block.
The bar was fantastic, and even though it had some quiet times where I was the only guest, from around 10:30pm-2am the odd VIP or two sauntered in to sip expensive whiskey or champagne as they watched the city lights and then they would disappear onto the small balcony to smoke cigars or cigarettes and then saunter in to finish their drinks.
There were no more than five people in the bar at any time. The guests were not at all like the fashionistas in the lobby bar. I had observed they were generally older businessmen in very expensive looking suits, or elderly American couples that were obviously retired and traveling. I hadn't really seen another guest that was younger than about fifty-five. At home, I would have called this the old fogies bar. However, I welcomed the change and didn't feel uncomfortable without people of my own age present. In fact, I think I preferred it. They left me be and I didn't feel the need to socialize, or worry about what I was wearing.
I was in writer's heaven, I could just sit and it all came to me so easily. I had to stop only to take a savoring sip of my wine, nibble on some cashews, or use the very luxurious ladies room.
For the last few days, I hadn't really left the hotel. I would write all night, and then crawl into bed and sleep the day away, only being re-energized again to get up, showered, dressed and catch a meal in the restaurant downstairs or call room service before gliding up to the bar itching to write and drink in the atmosphere.
Pouring the last glass from my bottle of Vintage Croser, I let it drip, drip, drip into my flute and I stashed it back in the ice bucket, neck down. I closed my eyes as I slowly sipped; savoring with pure delight the memories it brought back to me of home. Then I sighed, placed my glass on the table and continued to write. I hadn't even looked at the time, and even though my eyes felt dry and tired, I told myself to just keep going and let it all come out.
I assumed it was pretty late, but I just didn't want to stop when it was flowing so freely. Then I noticed someone was hovering over me and I looked up into the face of the waiter, who had been taking care of me since that first night that I was privileged enough to use my purple swipe card.
"Excuse me Ms Swan, but would you mind if one of our other guests played the piano. Would that be a disturbance to you?" He smiled.
I glanced over his shoulder to see the figure of a man seated with his back to me at the piano. There was a Heineken on a napkin on a little wooden stool next to the piano bench and he was swigging from the bottle, placing it on the stool and then almost instantly swigging from the bottle again. He seemed either really impatient or really stressed out.
"I don't mind at all. I think I'm too tired to continue writing for much longer, plus, if he's any good, that would be a pleasant way to end my evening."
Why was it that I tried to sound sophisticated in this place, it was so funny to me? Everyone was so nice, and my Australian accent sounded so primitive when they were all speaking so eloquently. If I was back home I would have said, "No worries, let him play, don't mind me," or something just as casual.
"I will let him know. Thank you Ms Swan. May I get you something else from the bar?" I looked up and my glass was empty and the bucket and upturned bottle had disappeared.
"Oh, yes, could I have a mineral water please?"
"Certainly." He turned on his heel and approached the pianist, who handed the waiter his empty bottle and then stretched his fingers. He gently strained his neck from left to right and shrugged his shoulders in preparation to play. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and a tatty looking black baseball cap. I could only see the back of him, but I knew instantly that he was young - well, younger than any of the previous guests had been. I wondered if he'd also been put-off by the crowds in the lobby bar, or if he'd requested this bar because he knew of the piano?
I quickly went back to re-read my last paragraph. I had decided I would have the water and call it a night.
Then the music started and I was awestruck.
It was simply the most beautiful piece of music I had ever heard. I tried to recall if I had ever been in a room sitting no more than five meters from a grand piano and I just couldn't think of a time.
Then I suddenly remembered one Christmas, shopping with my mother Renee at David Jones on Elizabeth Street and hearing the piano in the cosmetics section on the ground floor. I would have been about eight and I was mesmerized then, but the piano version of Silent Night had nothing on this composition. It was inspiring.
Instinctively, I grabbed my notebook and pen, just as the waiter placed a purple napkin on my table next to my laptop and then the glass of mineral water.
Words started to form as I listened, and I closed my eyes and let the music overtake me.
I noticed how he played, and after a few repetitions, I noticed he'd started from the beginning and then I recognized the change, the chorus? I was not musical, but I could identify two verses, a chorus and then two verses and then it sort of started again and he was playing as if he was trying to get it just right, a couple of missed keys, but seamlessly he'd pick it right back up. The whole time he was playing, words swirled in my mind and I just started writing them down and humming in my head.
I felt like I was possessed. I felt like I was connected to someone else and it felt surprisingly calming and surreal. I felt like there was a magnetic pull, or an electrical charge in the air. My body tingled and broke into goose bumps.
Then, the music stopped.
I had absolutely no concept of time or space in that instant. How long had he been playing? I looked down at the page of words in my notebook. I looked up to see the pianist slowly rise and drain another bottle of Heineken. He bent slightly and placed the bottle back on the wooden stool, and then sauntered with his shoulders hunched from the room. The door to the purple bar clicked closed softly, and I crashed out of my trance with a glorious THUD.
What. Was. That?
I felt like I had just woken from a dream. Was I asleep, was I awake? God, I must be so tired.
I looked at the time on my laptop, and saw it was 3:24am. No wonder I was hallucinating words and spaced-out. I downed my water and gathered my things. Did I just imagine that guy playing the most hypnotic and sensual music I had ever heard? I need to get to bed. Now.
I staggered from exhaustion and slight intoxication to the lift and descended to my room on the 8th floor. I dumped my bag just inside the door, and hastily brushed my teeth, changed into my tank top and matching cotton pajama pants and crawled into the crisp white hotel sheets. As I lay in bed, I hummed the melody to the hypnotic music and I drifted soundly to sleep.
I woke with a start the next morning…or was it already afternoon? I looked at the clock; it was 4:10pm and I was starving!
I ordered a club sandwich and a banana smoothie from room service and flicked on MTV. I snagged my bag off the floor dumped the contents on my unmade bed and then remembered the pages in my notebook.
I didn't imagine that music last night. I could remember the melody like it was burned into my soul. I grabbed the remote and muted the TV. I looked again at my notebook.
They were song lyrics.
He played and while he played I wrote down lyrics. I re-read them, and I sung the words to the melody still ringing in my head. I was gob-smacked.
Last night I had written lyrics to a song!
I hated night shoots. I was so hyped up and it was 3am! I knew when I got back to the hotel I wouldn't be able to sleep. I needed a beer or two and I needed to unwind. The driver pulled up right outside the hotel doors. I remembered the VIP bar on the 25th floor from the last time I had stayed at this hotel, so I rushed to the concierge after bolting from the paparazzi and with my eyes still ghosting the flashes from their onslaught, I asked him for a purple swipe card.
"Certainly Mr Paul."
I never checked in as myself, but that didn't really matter. It seemed as though every person in Vancouver knew I was staying here and knew who I was. I could hear a gaggle of females near the entrance to the lobby bar. I had to get out of here.
"Thank you." I handed him a twenty as he slipped me the swipe card and I practically ran to the elevator. Level 25, Heineken. I'll play the piano to chill myself the fuck out.
When I walked in, there was only one person there. She stood out like a Christmas tree. She was seated at the best booth in the room, but instead of the muted candle lighting on her table she had a full-blown spotlight shined on her, and I noticed her table covered in papers and an Apple Powerbook.
She was savoring the last drops of liquid from a very sophisticated champagne flute with her eyes closed and a slight smile on her lips. She looked about my age, possibly younger, probably twenty-two? She was extremely attractive, but looked very tired, just like I felt.
I looked at my iPhone; it was 3:08am. What kind of psycho would be working in a VIP bar at this hour? Maybe she was still a student? At least she didn't look like a fangirl; she must be pretty important to be in here, she must be an important business woman. I thought I was safe to assume she wouldn't ask me for an autograph, but it was more likely that she would. I'd never seen anyone younger than fifty in this bar before. It made me nervous.
I scanned the room briefly to see an elderly man smoking a cigar on the balcony. FUCK. I patted my jacket pockets, and then the front of my jeans.
I left my goddamn smokes in my trailer again.
The bar guy was headed towards me with an icy Heineken on a tray. God I love how they can just remember what I like.
"Good evening Mr Paul," he said as he handed me the liquid gold.
"Hi, thanks so much, I really need this," I took a huge gulp and motioned towards the piano.
"I'll just ask Ms Swan if she objects, Mr Paul. I'll be right back." Great, what if she 'objects', I didn't have any smokes and my fingers were itching to play. If she said no, I was fucked.
I sat down at the piano anyway, and they had already set up a little stool next to the piano bench with a purple napkin for my beer. I lifted the lid to reveal the glistening piano keys. I just needed to play, I needed to calm myself down, or there was no way I could sleep. I took another swig from the bottle, and placed it on the stool.
Shit, I may as well just finish it off, and get another.
Just like that, the bar guy returned and I handed him my empty bottle.
"Please feel free to play Mr Paul, I'll get you a replacement."
Thank fuck for that.
I stretched my fingers and took a deep breath. The song was almost complete, I just needed to work out the middle bridge, and it would be perfect. As soon as my fingers caressed the keys I was instantly soothed. It all came to me, it was instinctual, it was sensual. It was a perfectly composed piece of music.
If only I could think of words to go with it. I just knew I needed to get the music down and then I could work on some lyrics. I could ask Ben to help me out; he would make the time to help me, especially if he knew that I could guarantee that it went on the soundtrack. Maybe Jasper could help me, but he was so busy now, his career taking off, that I'd feel bad asking him.
I glanced over to the balcony; the old dude was still puffing away on his cigar.
God, I can't believe I left my smokes in my trailer, again. I think I have a few in a pack in my room.
The bar guy returned with another icy Heineken.
Let me just get this composition right and I'll finish this beer and go and have one last smoke before bed. I can't believe I have to be up and on set by 6am.
I had only arrived in Vancouver two days ago. My filming schedule was hectic, but this movie shoot would be comparatively short really. I'd be here for around four months. Today had been the first official day of shooting, as we had finished wardrobe and make-up tests yesterday. The director seemed like an OK guy. I hadn't worked with him before. It usually took me a few days of shooting to determine a director's style and how pedantic they would be. I needed more time with this one to work him out.
I continued to play and I tried to calm myself, but it just wasn't working. I could feel the business woman's eyes boring into my back and I had a horrible feeling that she was going to come up to me as soon as I stopped playing to take my photo or ask for an autograph.
And then, I got it. It was perfect. I started from the beginning and played it flawlessly until the last key stoke. It was completed. I sighed.
I did it! I mentally visualized the notes in my mind, I wouldn't forget.
I slowly stood and drained the bottle, placed the empty back on the stool.
I better get out of here now while I can. I'll come back tomorrow to play. I really need to have a smoke.
I sat staring at the wine list with trepidation. What if he didn't come back to play? What if he laughed at me? What if the song he had played had been a number one hit all around the world? Just because I had never heard anything like it, doesn't mean that it didn't exist.
Maybe it was only a hit in Canada. No, surely, if it had been a hit, I would have heard it in Australia. I'd spent all afternoon in the music store humming the tune to the staff, but none of them knew what it was or had ever heard of it.
I had transcribed the lyrics that I had written last night and named it 'Episode' because 'Psychotic-trance lyrics' sounded dicky, and that was the only way I could think about what happened to me last night when I went into that trance and wrote those lyrics. I had suffered an 'episode'.
They were perfectly typed and printed out and the page was on top of the table in front of me.
I sat in the 'purple' bar but just couldn't make a decision. I couldn't decide what I wanted to drink tonight. I couldn't start writing. My mind was a mess. The only thing I could think of was the mysterious pianist and that haunting 'love' song for want of a better word. I kept looking down at the page of lyrics. I kept hearing the piano music in my mind.
It was a love song, sort of. Well, the words were lovey, but sad, and sort of psychotic…like the episode itself.
I couldn't stop humming and singing it in my head and it was counter-productive to getting my work done.
I'm just going to have to give him these lyrics and then, I'll be able to go back to my writing. Maybe I should ask him first, whether the music has lyrics and if they do, then I won't give him mine.
God, this was torturous.
The waiter approached me, expectant for my selection. I'd had something different all week and now I just couldn't make up my mind.
"I'm sorry, I don't know your name?" I blurted. He had never introduced himself and he didn't wear a name badge like Mike the concierge.
He looked at me and smiled, "Ms Swan, my name is James. What can I get for you this evening?"
"Umm, I'm not sure. I can't decide tonight. I think you should just surprise me; I'm not myself," God, now I even sound psychotic.
"May I suggest the Bridgewater Mill Sauvignon Blanc? It was the first bottle you selected, so it must be one you enjoy?" he smiled.
"Yes," I breathed out in relief.
God that wasn't hard. Why am I feeling stressed over choosing a bottle of wine?
"Um, James, can I ask you something?" I felt on-edge and a little like a stalker. I knew I couldn't just ask him who the mystery VIP was; I knew he couldn't tell me, even if he wanted to.
"Certainly, I'll do my best to answer Ms Swan."
"The gentleman that was playing the piano last night? The song he played, I just can't get it out of my head, and I was wondering if you knew what it was called or who composed it?"
"I'm sorry Ms Swan, I hadn't heard that particular song before. I'm afraid I can't tell you who composed it. I'm sure the gentleman will come back to play. Maybe you can ask him directly. He is quite used to being approached by other guests." James tried to hide a smirk, but he let it slip and I just gaped at him trying to decipher his meaning. He suddenly composed himself. "I'll be right back with your wine."
So, 'other guests' approached him. What does that mean? Maybe he was famous or something? I never saw his face, so I can't say that I would know who he was, but that little smirk meant something. Oh well, it was pointless trying to work it all out. I had to just give him the lyrics and then get back to my novel. I'd be doing so well, I couldn't let the music consume me.
I scrambled into the elevator and up to my room on the 34th floor. Today had been a good day. I felt like I had achieved something and I got off set at a reasonable hour. I looked at the digital clock next to the huge king sized bed. It was 10:45pm. I could go down to the bar, play some piano, have a smoke on the balcony a couple of beers. Maybe I could start to think about the lyrics for the song, now that the composition was perfect.
I grabbed my smokes and the purple swipe card and headed to the elevator. OK, it was a Thursday night. I'd have work tomorrow, get to sleep in on Saturday morning and then off to see Ben play that night, sleep all day Sunday, back at work at 5am Monday morning.
It's beer O'Clock!
I walked into the bar and scanned the room. I always did this. My instincts were honed. It usually took one look and I knew if I was going to be accosted. My eyes instantly traveled to the spot lit table. No way, the table still covered with papers and that Apple Powerbook. No tired business woman though. An ice bucket and half a glass of wine on the table, she was probably either on the balcony or in the Ladies. I looked out to the small balcony, same old dude sucking on that cigar. There were two middle-aged Armani suits doing a deal in the corner, drinking hard liquor.
And here comes my best friend with my icy Heineken.
"Good evening Mr Paul."
I took the Heineken and guzzled half the bottle in one gulp.
"Thanks. I don't suppose I can play tonight?"
"Certainly Sir. I'm sure it will be fine" He motioned with a nod towards the business woman's table. "One of our other guests inquired about the piece of music you played last night. She wanted to know the title of the song and who composed it? If you like I could tell her, so that she doesn't approach you directly?"
Wow, so the attractive business woman liked the song?
That was a bonus; she was in the target demographic for the film. Well it didn't have a name, so yes, he might as well tell her, so she didn't try to hit on me.
"The song doesn't have a name yet. I composed it myself. It's still coming together. Really, it's not entirely finished."
"I'll let her know," and he walked towards the bar.
I sat at the piano, placed my Heineken on the little stool and started playing. I played it all the way through, no mistakes and then I took another swig of beer and played it again. The Armani suit dudes kept on talking; they didn't even glance my way. The cigar man was leaning on the balcony balustrade, he didn't even register that he heard me playing. But then, I got that feeling, that tingling down my spine, like there was suddenly static electricity in the air. I knew business woman had returned to her table and she was watching me.
I decided I might as well give up tonight. I'd been sitting in front of my notes and laptop stressing about whether he would show up and play, and every time I'd try to write, nothing, nada, complete blank.
Damn, I knew my writing roll was too good to be true.
I took a slow sip of wine and got up to use the bathroom. OK, I mentally berated myself. Go and ask Mike the super sweet concierge to deliver my lyrics anonymously to the mystery guest and then, that will be it! I can go back and keep writing.
I suspected that just having the lyrics in my possession was what was causing my bout of writers block. Once they were out of my possession, everything would be okay.
I washed my hands and dried them with the soft fluffy hand towel and then squirted on some hand moisturizer when I heard it.
That beautiful song was in my head again.
But it wasn't my head this time. It was him and he was playing the song again and it was even more surreal than last night, because I was standing in the bathroom at the 'purple' bar and I was suddenly extremely nervous at going back to my table.
I took a deep breath.
Tonight will be a write-off. Go out, pack up your stuff and give him the lyrics on the way out. Then start afresh tomorrow. Easy!
I slowly walked back to my table; the music was exquisite. I sat down and scooted over to the middle of the circular booth. I grabbed the perfectly typed out lyrics and waited. I looked up to watch him. His torso was rigid and stiff the only movement seemed to come from his elbows down. He would occasionally slightly move his head to the right, or glance up over the piano out to the view. Then the song finished, the last keystroke seemed to reverberate through the air like a wind-chime.
PLEASE PLAY IT AGAIN, I yelled mentally.
I just wanted to sing along in my head. I watched as he took another swig of his beer and then, just like I wished in my head, he played the song again.
I took a look at the paper and I started singing the first verse, the second, into the chorus, the third verse, the bridge (wow he had fine tuned it slightly) and then final verse. I sighed.
A single tear formed in my eye. My heart had been pumping in my chest a million miles and hour.
He got up, grabbed his beer and fumbled for something his pocket. Cigarettes, yuck. He sauntered outside to the balcony. Okay, when he comes back I'll give him the lyrics and then go.
I took a sip of wine then I started packing away my things. I felt sweaty and lightheaded. I'd been feeling anxious all night. Maybe I was coming down with something. Or maybe I just needed another drink. I topped my wine glass up and sculled it entirely.
I've never written lyrics before and I wasn't even sure if he would want them, or even if the song needed to have any in the first place. I shouldn't let that stop me, because I felt that there was something in that 'episode' and something was internally screaming at me to just do what I said I would do. So I closed the laptop lid, slid it into my bag, and gathered my notebook and pen. Everything was packed away except the sheet of crisp white paper with my lyrics.
Just as I went to scoot over to get out of the booth, James stood before me smiling.
"Excuse me Ms Swan, I took the liberty of asking the gentleman about the song. He wrote it himself, though he said it's not finished. It does not have a title."
"Oh, thanks James." Okay, no title, maybe no lyrics then?
"Can I get you anything else from the bar?" he asked.
"No, I was just leaving, but I'll see you tomorrow." I shuffled along the booth and looked up to see that the pianist had returned, and he stretched his shoulder blades together and started playing the song again.
I sat there in awe. I closed my eyes and sang along in my head. And in that three minutes, I knew that it was the right thing to do.
If he didn't want them, he could throw them away. I knew that song would be with me forever, regardless. It was stamped into my brain and into my soul, and I knew that there would be a way to break from the writers' block. Maybe I'd just have to find a new bar to write in.
Okay, this is it! As he played the final verse, I stood up, flung my bag strap over my shoulder and walked over to the piano.
A/N: Reviews are so much better than an icy Heineken.