April 10th, 2013
Gloomy Sunday

“More, please.”

I looked over at him across the bar.

“Sorry. Just a little bit more, please.”

“Okay,” I said, tilting the bottle. Grabbing the ice shaker, I moved the glass down to the sink and dumped some more, then quickly added more ice.

“Just a bit more. Please.”

“Okay.” I gave the drink one final splash, my hands shaking.

“Thank you.” He picked it up, took a sip, and shook his head. “Anyway, why didn’t he just slit his wrists? Or just go to the store, buy a gun, and aim it at his head?”

“I don’t know.”

“The funny thing is, he’s alive. And others are dead. How about that, huh?” He paused. “What song is this?” He gestured to the faint murmur of the radio.

“I think it’s called ‘Gloomy Sunday’.”

“Yeah? Who sings it?”

I paused to listen; let my right fingers dance to the notes absently. “Billie Holiday.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have beautiful hands?”

I sighed, and shook my head.

“Now don’t’ think I’m being creepy! Hitting on you or anything like that. I’m not. Sheesh! I’m old enough to be your dad. My mother had hands like yours. Do you play the piano?”

“Used to.”

“Knew it. Hands like that. Same as my mother’s, God rest her soul. What do you mean, you ‘used to?’ ”

“Well, it’s tough to make a living playing the piano. I went to school for it. I put a lot into it. But I just don’t know. I’m not — as good as I thought.”

“I bet you are as good. I mean, I’ve never heard you play, so you could be awful. But, I just have a feeling. A good feeling. About you.”

“Thanks, Jason.”

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