“Let me be straight with you Lee, I ain’t gonna be able to play for you no more.” I say to Lee, in his office above the bar. Lee is a patient man, but I can see his brows furl in anger so I plough on before he can interrupt, “Not tonight. Not ever. I’m sorry.”

Lee shakes his head, pulls his fat maroon cigar from his mouth and says, “You’re joking, Gustav! You must be!”

I bow my head, shamefaced, and mutter, “I just can’t, Lee.”

Lee sticks his cigar back in his mouth and chews it angrily. He huffs and snorts but says nothing. At last he says, “How come? How come you can’t play for me no more?”

I don’t answer.

“Come on, Gustav! I deserve to know why my best piano man just up and quit, don't I? Have I done something to your dissatisfaction, huh? Is that it?”

“No. No, it’s nothing like that.” I blurt out quickly, “You’re a good boss, Lee. A good man. I couldn't've asked for any better. But… well… it’s Isabella see.”

Lee hits me with a gaze that would wilt concrete. The beginnings of a rage sweat bead on his red face. “That damn broad.” he mutters under his breath, “What’d she say to you, Gustav? What’d she say?”

As he speaks, Lee waves his arms like a mad man. It has always been his way but now he gesticulates with a furious vigour. Despite my best efforts to preserve my pride, my confession comes out as a whimper, “She left me.”

Lee lets out a string of expletives too obscene to be repeated. The office is now completely filled with the musky spicy smoke of his cigar. Lee leans back in his chair, sticks his fat thumbs in his belt loops, and says, “So that’s it, is it?”

The accusation in his voice cuts deep, and it riles my passion. I leap to my feet in bitter rage and say, “You don’t understand Lee. Isabella was my muse. I played for her, always for her. When she left she took the music with her. Without Isabella, I have nothing. Nothing! The problem isn’t that I won’t play for you; the problem is that I can’t. The magic has left me Lee. I am nothing.”

Lee watches me as I pace, still puffing away at his fat cigar. He reaches into his side drawer, pulls out a bottle of scotch, and pours out two shots. “I’ve got money.” He says simply. I shake my head but he continues, “How much Gustav? I’ve been working in this business long enough, everyone’s got a price.”

“No.” I say. “Not me.”

Lee stares at me, long and hard. Finally he stands up and grasps me by the shoulders. “If you won’t do it for me Gustav, and you won’t do it for the money, do it for the music. Think of the music. You were the best. You are the best! I know it. You know it. So what d’you say?”

I sit back in my chair. I shake my head hollowly. “I can’t, Lee. I can’t. God knows I wanna’, but I can’t.”

Lee sits down opposite me. He downs his shot. I do the same. The whiskey burns but it can’t fill the emptiness inside.

“One night.” Says Lee, “Just tonight. Just whilst I find a replacement. Come on Gustav. Play for me. One last time?”

The office falls silent. I think. At last I agree.

As I’m leaving his office, Lee pats me on the back and says, “Think of the music. When you play tonight, think of the music.”

So here I am. My old trusty piano. The bar room’s filled with smoke. A melancholy hush has fallen on the drinkers. I roll back my shoulders, crack my knuckles, and I play.

At first the notes are uneven; they don’t quite land. It takes all my effort just to get out a semi-decent sound. Lee was wrong. I can’t play without a muse, I just can’t.

Then something happens. Something shifts inside of me. All of a sudden, the music is flowing like fine wine, as smooth as velvet. It fills the room with its beauty. The beauty, the elegance, it engulfs me, and I don’t hold back. No tonight I give that old piano my every last bit. And it pays me back tenfolds. The majesty of the music is beyond words. It is joy distilled. It is all that is good, all that is bad, all that is. And at that moment I know.

Lee was right. The music is enough. I need no muse, no mistress. I need only music. Across the bar, Lee nods and smiles. His piano man is here to stay.

Micha never wanted this. Never once. Then again, she never had a choice in this. 

Just like every night. She’s trying to cry herself to sleep. It wasn’t the first time she cried herself to sleep. She would do this, and sometimes she and he would get into an argument, even if she felt like she was pathetic or if she felt like she wasn’t deserving of the life she was leading at the time. 

You might be thinking. Well, feelings like this aren’t permanent. She’ll feel better after a while. That’s true.    

  She does feel better after crying for hours on the bathroom floor, then walking out as if nothing had happened and continuing with her life. 

When the feelings did come back, it hit her like a truck on the freeway. Fast. Strong. Painful. 

“It’s been 3 hours…I should go downstairs before he comes up and we argue again.” 

Micha wipes her tears, ties her hair up in a ponytail, and heads downstairs, only to see her husband. Atlas.  

She ignores him and walks over to the stove and turns it on. Atlas, on the other hand, walks up behind her. “Micha?” she hums in response. “There’s something I need to tell you.” 

Micha sighs, switches the stove off, and turns around while leaning against the table with her arms folded across her chest. “Go on.” 

“Right, so. You know how I went to a check-up today at the hospital.” 

“Yes.” 

“The doctors did a scan and have diagnosed me with…” 

There was a long pause. Micha waited for him to say something, and when the silence was getting too loud, she decided to break it.  “With what?” 

“Lung cancer.” 

Micha’s eyes widened slightly. “Lung cancer? I know he smokes, but I didn’t think it would lead to this...” 

“What stage?”

“Final.” 

“How long?” 

“The doctor said a couple of weeks. Max.”

Atlas walks closer to Micha and takes her hand into his. “Micha.” He looks at her with eyes full of adoration. “I know that I haven’t been the best husband, but when the doctors said that I only had a few weeks to live. My heart stopped. My heart stopped, knowing that I would leave this world without being able to be a good husband to you.”

Micha stares into his eyes. This was the most he had ever said to her since they got married. 

Before she could say anything, he beat her to it. 

“The truth is. I like you, Micha. I do, and I want to apologise. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for being such a jerk to you. Can you ever forgive me?” 

Micha blinks once. Then twice. “Did he just. Confess?” 

Micah looks away for a brief moment, then slowly takes her hand out of his. “Atlas, I’m sorry. But you’ve hurt me in the past. Every time I wanted to give you another chance, you would destroy the little hope I had. Every. Single. Time.”

 Micha slowly walks to the door of their home. 

         “Goodbye, Atlas.”