The Cocktail Napkin

He was cold. Dressed in a grey sweatshirt and skinny jeans, he leaned against the brick building and listened to the quiet twinkles of a piano inside. It was snowing, and he could see his breath rise towards the single lamp that hung over the rusty metal back door. In the distance, a streetlight illuminated the alleyway. The asphalt was all covered with a light blanket of fresh snow, the kind that would melt into a dirty grey when someone stepped in it.

The piano sang on and he reached for the door handle, but stopped short. He looked up at the light, at the snow that drifted down, and freed a large sigh of air to the heavens. Something wasn't right, but he couldn't tell what. It was like an accidental stroke in a painting that the artist had cleverly painted over.

He faced the door and swallowed, stuck his frozen hands into his pockets, and let out another sigh. Then, suddenly, the door swung open, and two attractive women burst out, arms around each other's shoulders and laughing. One of them sized him up through the wisp of smoke that drifted from her cigarette and smiled. But he didn't notice them.

The door was wide open, and he saw, through the waving arms and cigarette haze, the pretty face he remembered so well, and her delicate fingers dancing across the keyboard. Then she opened her eyes and she saw him too. Neither of them looked away as the door slowly creaked shut, closing on the smoke, on the waving hands, on her, on him. Then there was a click and he was alone again.

He stood still facing the door for a moment. Inside, the delicate fingers tripped and continued on, slightly off-rhythm. The snow kept falling as he turned and walked away, the two attractive women laughing all the while.