The Lady in the Bar

Flash Fiction by Marge Simon

     See that ancient piano by the door? Looks like it’s been left out in the rain for a couple of centuries, right? There’s a story that goes with that old piece of junk. Back at the turn of the century, it was shiny and new, imported from some European country. Only one person for miles around could play it right. Her husband was a drunk, used to beat her, but she’d get away and come here to play. One night, he followed her here. He took a baseball bat to that piano, made sure it was broken beyond repair. After that, she kind of disappeared. Legend goes, her ghost still hangs around. Some claim you can hear her playing in the darkest hours before dawn.

     The door swings open. A slender woman stands there, framed against the sunset. The bartender knows her. He fixes her a glass of his best whiskey on the rocks. She walks over to the piano and plays a few chords. Her face is as velvety smooth as the white of her hair. She’s old enough to be your mother, but that doesn’t matter. She sits there quietly for a few moments. Normally, you’d be making snide remarks, trying to be witty and cool to impress customers of the fairer sex. Depending on how much you’d had, you might be yelling insults. Either way, you’d be drunk. This time is different. Sure, you’ve had enough lager to behave predictably, but while she sits there making you wait, you keep still. Your head begins to clear, but you’re not alone. When she starts playing, everyone shuts up to listen, even the guy in the booth, coughing blood in his beer. She plays the blues and more. Like more than words and deep and it goes straight inside all the places where you’ve tried to hide your fear, digs them out and makes you feel all right about it. She plays as long as she feels like it, and then she stops. There is another drink waiting for her, but she just leaves it there on the piano. She glances at you on the way out, a tree of owls in her eyes. 

     She’s brought you Jasmine candles and dandelion wine, a first passionate kiss, country walking on winter days. If you were hurting deep inside or sorrowing over a lost love, it doesn’t matter anymore; she’s fixed what was broken.

     Years pass, but that old piano still sits there in plain sight by the door. The new owner is all set to have it removed. But you and a couple of other old customers hear this and pitch in some bucks to save it. Not restore, just salvage. You manage to convince the owner to leave it be, for old time’s sake. You don’t tell him it belongs to a ghost.