Piano Man
By Katie

I never broke a glass until that night, that night when he came back from the dead and broke my heart for the second time in fifteen years...

I'm working as a bartender in the Singing Walrus, the lounge at a Hilton in LA. It's not a job I want, it's not a job I like, even, but I have Morgan to look out for, now, too. So I can't be a chooser.

I'm filling a mug with Budweiser and praying the slightly drunk woman at the far end of the bar won't get any drunker - I really hate scenes - when he walks in. I instantaneously recognize him, but tap Mike to validate. "Who's that?"

"Entertainment, I think. I saw Lou talking to him before." Lou's the manager.

"Do you recognize him?"

"Should I?"

I stop sadly. "I guess not."

Mike continued wiping down the bar, and I struggled not to stare at this wonderful stranger, whom I spent so much of my life knowing so well. Gone are the long blond locks and rattail, replaced long ago by a short cut, darker, more subdued. He is wearing cords and a sweater, and I think back wryly upon the infamous leather pants. They disappeared along with the reporters and teenyboppers, I suppose.

The drunk woman signals to me; I sigh and walk over to her. "Is that your beau?" she slurs.

"Excuse me?"

"That nice-looking man over at the piano."

"Wha...oh! No. I...knew him a long time ago, is all."

"You should reintroduce yourself," she advises. "Ask him if he remembers you. But first, dear, I'd like another beer."

Too tired to explain that the "Nice-looking man at the piano" and I were never actually introduced, I get the woman a ginger ale. She can't tell the difference, and I refuse to be responsible for getting an old lady hammered.

And so it goes. My stranger, my amazing, beautiful, thirtysomething stranger sits down at the baby grand in the corner of the dim room, and begins to play; at first, just a few simple chords, but as the song progresses, the intensity in his electric eyes grows. He is singing now, rich velvet holding the room spellbound.

Suddenly, I am fourteen again, in all my tank-topped, face-glittered glory, standing on my chair in Section 5 (sounds great until you find out there ARE five sections), jumping and clapping and screaming and singing along-never mind that I can't carry a tune in a bucket.

The memory fades with the notes of the music, and upon studying his now-rugged, jaded, disappointed face, I realize that this young man has lived as many lifetimes as I. He, too, has chased an illusion through a haunting funhouse of smoke and mirrors. Taylor Hanson knows what it feels like to be young and smart and beautiful and full of promise, and still manage to end up at the Singing Walrus. The glass I have picked up slips from my fingers, crashing to the floor as so many dreams have.

He is about to start another song, but halts and rises from the dark, glossy piano bench. He walks steadily towards where I am standing behind the bar dumbstruck, picks up the largest pieces of glass, and throws them in the garbage. "I know," he whispers in my ear. "I know."

He touches my hand for a brief moment before returning to the piano. A deep breath, and his voice fills the room once more.