Like Music

As the music started, everyone stopped doing whatever it was they were doing, as if enchanted by the violent, but at the same time miraculously delicate notes the piano sang under his command. No one noticed him coming, but to be honest it was rather dark in this pub. Most of the light bulbs had gone out a while ago, but the pubkeeper was not too keen on facultyworks, which added it's own character to this particular pub. Floorboards creaked, faucets kept running and there was a probable mould damage in progress.

But now the place was lit by thundering music, the air was thick with tension and pure electricity. Customer's hair could have as well jumped and tried to reach the roof, they felt constant shivers going down their spine with almost every new note.

And the man playing the music? He was a suit-full of devil and blues poured into a form of a man, he was like river, scary, terrifying force of nature. His fingers kept hitting the notes out of the worn out machinery of the instrument. He made it sing songs of mortality and dying, of longing and joy, of love and trust. His foot kept the rhythm going even when he played the most silent and almost non-existent notes.

People could do nothing but sit there, staring at the back of his brown coat. The beers went warm, meals went cold, bees could have built hives and have colonies in those open mouths that were pointed towards this man, who played for good twenty minutes without a pause. Then, after the last note was followed by silence that seemed to go on forever, he slowly turned around, accompanied only by the slightly reluctant creak from his bench.

No one said a word, but now they could all see the player himself. He was an older black man, probably in his late sixties or early seventies, his short beard had gone gray long ago. He had long, bony fingers and the widest of all smiles. His smile would have looked warm and embracing, if there wasn't something in his eyes. His eyes made that smile look cunning and somewhat malicious, those eyes made all the people in the pub feel uneasy.

The man rose from his bench with one sudden, slender and light move, walked up to the counter, turned to the bartender and ordered a beer with a deep, resonating voice. It took the tender a whil to realize this weird man was talking to him, and when he did, he coughed to clear his throat. "Sure, sure.. It's on the house.." He muttered to his beard. "Well ain't that something!" The stranger replied loudly, with a slightly higher tone than before. "You walk into a small shithole of a bar like this, ruin everyone's evening and get a free drink for it!" His honesty about his own position made the bartender feel himself even more uneasy. "it's been our common habbit, and all that......" he continued muttering, keeping his eyes on the counter instead of those dreadfully burning eyes. Man grinned and clapped his hands, took his pint and walked slowly to one of the dark cornertables.

People started to recover from this strange and unexpected incident, and began to drink and talk as if the spell would have been broken. Something had changed though. Everyone was on their feet, cautious like a fox that's being hunted. Some would give the odd player suspicious but hidden looks, and when recalling that night afterwards, all these people would sweat they saw his eyes glowing in the dark corner.

Eventually everything was as it used to be, people forgot all about the shadow in the corner, and although he had no intention to leave, and he knew what impression he had left to their minds, people tried to reject that uncomfortable feeling in the back of their heads, the lump in their throats. And death looked at all he had created, and he saw that it was all good.