Her name was Yolanda.
Every night he sat in the little piano bar and listened to her play. Every night on his way out he dropped a twenty into the small basket on the piano.
Her shoulder length hair was as black as India ink. Her eyes were deep emerald green set in an oval face that looked like it had never seen the sun.
This night when he walked toward her she looked into his eyes and said without a smile, "would you join me for a drink?"
"Of course," he replied startled.
He allowed her to lead the way to the small table he had just left and held out her chair, "You play beautifully. Your music takes me back years." He circled the table and took the seat opposite her.
"Thank you." Her smile revealed a small dimple in her right cheek. "I love an appreciative audience," the smile disappeared. "It's so much nicer than the drunks I frequently play for."
"You are an incredibly gifted young lady, and you are as beautiful as the music you play."
She took her small silver rimmed glasses off and leaned forward. There were daggers in her eyes.
"I know you mean well, but I don't like comments about my looks. I enjoy compliments about how I play because I work very hard. I know I'm what some would call beautiful but I was born with these looks and had absolutely nothing to do with them."
"I'm sorry I mentioned it."
"So am I." She stood and walked away.
She was tall and slender, and walked with the grace of a runway model.
Another musician played the next three nights. He enjoyed the music but not as much as he had Yolanda's.
On the third night he walked through the door and immediately recognized her style. Her playing touched his soul and took him back to a previous life.
He remembered his time with Carmen. He recalled the horror he felt when she suddenly disappeared twenty-four, years ago. It had been while they travelled in Spain. His arrest and eventual release because of her disappearance were still vivid memories. He longed for her touch and loved her as much today as he had those many years ago. He frequently thought of her and wondered what happened to her.
Night after night he returned to listen and nurse his single malt. She never spoke to him but only nodded and gave him a slight smile when put his tip in the little basket.
A week later she came and sat with him.
"I appreciate your generosity."
"I appreciate your playing."
"Would you like to come to my flat? I'll give you a private concert."
"Thank you. I'd like that."
"I have one more set. Please meet me at the back door. You can walk me home. It isn't far."
"Your name is Chris and you taught classical piano," she said and linked her arm through his. She moved in close, projecting the warmth of slender femininity. She smelled fresh not perfumed.
"True." He'd frequented the piano bar for over a year so wasn't surprised she knew something about him.
She led him to the top of a five story walk-up. A small grand piano took up most of the floor space. There was a futon/couch made into a bed against the wall. A small kitchen with a two-burner stove took up a corner.
She opened a bottle of red wine and poured two glasses. "I'll be back in a moment."
He watched her reflection in the mirror through the open bathroom door. He wondered if she knew he could see her as she dropped her clothes to the floor.
Pointed nipples and tan areolas accentuated her small breasts. A well-trimmed triangle of dark pubic hair was like an inverted crown above her slender thighs. She slipped into a tight yellow tank top and white baggy shorts.
She sashayed back into the room her hips swinging provocatively. She sat, looked at him then began to play Wagner's "Tanhauser."
