The Last Note

Day had fallen long ago, taking with it a burning sun, and once again darkness claimed the sky. Against a black canvas, the city put on its impressive nightly light show; a million different bulbs shone valiantly in a show of artificial strength Thomas Edison would have been proud of. The hectic daytime crowds had dispersed, returning home to complaining spouses and petulant children for another night in paradise, leaving the streets empty, bar the occasional smoking teen and vandal, to delight in the sudden silence. 1

Hours earlier, a black and orange motorbike had pulled onto one such street, breaking the silence with a terrific mechanical roar. With a screech it had pulled into a narrow parking space, and one of the two riders had flipped down the kickstand before unzipping his leather jacket, pulling the large helmet off his head and offering his hand to the second passenger. They had entered the bar together, the only people in the shadows of a far off street light. 2

Above the door a half lit neon sign, one of a dwindling number of remnants from happier and more prosperous days, proclaimed the seedy establishments name, but now the letters could hardly even be made out. 'Jake's' something, the man would have guessed. The state inside the bar wasn't much better. A few men who looked like regulars were sprawled in the corner booths, eyes glued to a TV in the corner that looked like one of the first mass produced models, their fingers glued to cigarettes and their other hands glued to large bottles of no-name beer. In the opposite corner, a group of bikers - with the required long hair, printed leather jackets, joints, alcohol and Harley motorcycles in the parking lot - were playing poker with world-hardened cards. 3

The man took a seat at the dusty counter and the woman did the same, flicking her brunette hair over her shoulder as she glanced nervously around the bar. After a moment, the anger that had sent her running to good old liquid courage took over again and with narrowed eyes, she ordered straight Scotch for both of them. 4

As she tipped the cheap booze into her mouth, wincing slightly when the burn she was unaccustomed to trailed down her throat, the man let one long finger trace around the top of his shot glass. Tormented blue eyes watched her. 5

She was beautiful. Not that inner beauty that anybody who clearly isn't the next Miss anything is always celebrating, but the take-your-breath-away-no-matter-what-she's-wearing just plain good looks. In this case, she wore a pair of cropped jeans and a black jacket that she had thrown on before coming to his apartment in tears, but it made a perfect case in point. Natural beauty; nothing could beat it. Especially when she had that thin tendril of hair that had escaped from her messy ponytail tickling the side of her face, teasing the fingers just itching to put it back behind her ear. 6

When he had first met her, she'd been the one who kept wanting to push that piece of brown hair back. It was a nervous habit, he remembered thinking, but then at a job interview, he figured she had a right to a few butterflies in her stomach. He had been captivated when he first saw her. He was a curious guy, and the fact somebody so stunning actually put themselves through medical school interested him. People take the easy road; beautiful girls marry rich guys and live happily ever after. But she had broken the mould. Spent hours, years, pouring over medical textbooks and learning long complicated words. That interested him. Plus, she was a great doctor; had an amazing resume. So he decided that he'd give her a go. Just because of her skill, he was quick to tell anybody. He may have been known as one of the hospital's less morally bound doctors, but he wasn't completely egotistical and bound by his own desires. Purely professional decision. So, one part of his brain he was trying to shut up asked, how come you're so quick on the defensive?7

Within the first few weeks of her appearing in the office each morning he'd fallen into a new routine: nursing a bottle of scotch each night, trying to ignore the thoughts that kept wandering in her direction. He told himself he was annoyed: she got attached to patients; didn't focus on the medicine; she'd missed something on the x-ray of that kid last week, and now the boy was starting chemo five days later than he should have. It didn't matter that he'd missed it too, as had the other doctor; admitting that would leave him with no excuse for his wandering thoughts. About this time he'd curse her and chug another mouthful from the bottle, letting his grimace ingrain itself deeper into his face. 8

Two weeks later, he decided that turning to the bottle was a childish thing to do, and so he tipped the rest of the Scotch down the sink. He then put into practice the disarming charm that in conjunction with his boyish grin and good looks had remained unused since the good old college days. He dated. Extensively. And when he wasn't with some girl ten years younger than his conservative thirty nine years, he was with his recently expanded circle of friends. Poker, pool, a barbecue, tennis; hell, one night he'd even gone to dinner party where they had ended up playing chess. He was a hit with his peers: funny, exciting and great storyteller were words that were often tossed around. Everybody who had known him before the massive change was amazed: the cranky, snarky yet brilliant doctor had turned from a guy that was avoided by everyone into one of the most popular doctors in the hospital. 9

The problem was he was really only in it to manipulate. Their time for his distraction, their reactions for his entertainment, his own feelings for...well, he wasn't ready to admit that. 10

The one thing he was readily admitting, quite often actually, was that Dr. Allison Davies was the one woman he would never fall for. Ever, ever, ever. She was just the kind of person he didn't need: too caring, too nice, too happy. She probably had a pair of rose coloured glasses next to the shoebox of sentimental keepsakes and stuffed teddy bears on her shelves. Sure, she was stunning but anything more than an employer/employee relationship would come with too many strings. And unlike the carnivals he remembered from his childhood, these strings weren't attached to a stuffed animal or plastic toy, displayed in front of the 'every player wins a prize' sign. No, these strings were the bad, not worth it kind. Besides, why would she even want an emotionally crippled *bunny* like him?11

Yep, if there was one woman that he was not going to fall for, it was her. 12

A few months later, he thought back to his emblazoned words with a sheepish shrug. Funny, really, how those kind of statements always seem to come back to bite you in the *bunny*. She wasn't a rock climber, not even a professional athlete, but somehow she managed to worm her way under his defences and scale his walls without even breaking a sweat. He was proud of those tall, strong emotional walls; they kept everybody else out, and made sure he was safe inside. But, damn her, she'd acted as though they were a picket fence around an old ladies garden. And the worst part was that the closer she got, the less he seemed to mind.13

Without even realising it, he stopped dating, started returning to his more usual antisocial self. They exchanged e-mail’s and phone numbers, which one of his mates told him meant they were now under the loose term 'acquaintances'. For a while she was content with that. Being able to ask him how his day was and share any kind of life changing news was enough. 14

But Allison Davies was a force to be reckoned with when she decided that 'acquaintances' was not enough. 15

She had told him in a hospital corridor. He was sure that some gossiping nurse would catch wind of it, but apparently they were lucky. With shining green eyes, she lay out for him in plain easy English that she didn't just want to be friends. He thought about telling her according to Jase they were only acquaintances, but decided the emotionally charged moment might not be the best time.

With each word of the awkward conversation, he got more nervous. His mind was screaming at him to run. There had been a couple of bad relationships years back: old girlfriends who had helped him put up the first few storeys of the walls guarding his heart. Time had completed the job. His heart on the other hand, was using its raspy voice to tell him that he wanted her too; this was his chance. Maybe his only chance. 16

Unfortunately, his heart was out of practice and just wasn't loud enough to drown out his head. He fled the conversation with a very un-Hayden-like comment: maybe we can just be friends. She had grabbed it like a ship wreck survivor grabs a rope that will lift him to safety. 17

Soon without him even realising, they had become friends. He had gone out for drinks with her a couple of times, he said hello in a warmer, cheerier tone in the morning (which left the other doctors very suspicious), he did thoughtful things like bringing her a cup of coffee after a long shift or offering to drive her home late at night. He even smiled when he thought about her. 18

And for a year that had been the way things stayed. They had spent an increasing amount of time together; learnt more about each other; slowly begun destroying his reasons as to why they couldn't be together. And then tonight, right in the middle of some trashy TV show that was so pathetic and predictable it had him hooked, a hesitant knock on the door sounded through his apartment. He turned down the TV and held his breath, hoping that who ever it was would just go away – after losing a kid they had been trying for the last two weeks to save, he didn't feel like talking to anybody. But another knock echoed through his living room, and with a sigh he got off his *bunny*, sending a rueful glance toward the TV, and pulled open the heavy wooden door. 19

Allison was standing outside, shivering slightly in the cool night air. One tear ran down her face, but the evidence of smudged makeup and puffy eyes spoke for itself: many tears had preceded the one clinging to her cheek. He had ushered her inside and listened as she explained the perfect boyfriend she had gotten herself after his rejection had turned out to be somewhat south of perfect. 20

She had come home from her shift early, and found him with another woman. And it wasn't his sister or his cousin; she had met them at a family reunion the month before. Plus, he was close to his family, but she doubted he would share a bed with one of them. Naked.21

Quickly her betrayal had turned to anger, and as a compromise to keying the cheating *bunny*s sports car or kicking his *bunny*, Hayden managed to get her to agree to some good old fashioned alcohol to drown out all feeling. 22

Now, after having had some Scotch that was definitely helping with numbing their minds, but couldn't really be classed as good, he was beginning to wonder whether he should have brought a girl like her to a bar like this. With a mental shrug, he tipped the next shot down his throat like the old hand he was, and decided that he needed a few more cheap glasses if he was still thinking about her. Friendship was the extent of their relationship: he was not going to fall for her. The little part of his brain that burst into laughter whenever he thought something like that began its annoying chorus again, and he motioned for the bartender: hard booze was the only way to get that patronising voice out of his head.23

It was a good thing it was a Saturday, because he doubted either of them would be in a condition to work tomorrow.24

He finally got the bartenders attention and ordered another round, waiting impatiently as the sound of cues on pool balls began to really get under his skin. When the incompetent barman finally brought them four glasses with amber liquid, Ally downed the next shot with the same efficiency he did. 25

Half an hour later, he was stuck in another awkward conversation. He didn't do awkward conversations. God, he hardly did civil conversations. If it had been anybody else, he would have pointedly cut them off by getting another drink and then turning away to watch the TV. But for some reason, he didn't think he could do that this time. The alcohol, he told himself, was making him do stupid things. 26

They weren't smashed yet, so he managed to follow what she was saying, and she managed not to slur her angry words too badly. He soon realised though, he didn't have to listen. She wasn't saying anything remarkable: “I thought we were happy”, “he's a cheating *bunny*”, “why would he do something like this?”. He stared past her shoulder and focussed on an interesting stain on the wall, trying to figure out what bodily fluid, cocktail or type of food it was, nodding his head whenever he felt her eyes on him. 27

After she had said her piece, she was angry again, and she motioned to the bartender for more of the hard liquor. She ordered the same for him, and he didn't feel he could refuse. After all, just watching her drink would be rude, right? She grinned at him before she threw back the shot, and he automatically smiled back, suddenly mesmerised. He forced his eyes away from her again, reminding himself who they were, why they were here and his easily accessed list of 1001 reasons why it wouldn't work between them. He began at the eight year age difference, went on to the completely different outlook on life and continued onto the undeniable 'she's my employee'. 28

Two hours later, they were both smashed as hell: the glazed shot glasses had a few telltale drops of amber liquid in the bottom, but it was the sheer number of little circular cups - strangely arranged in a somewhat symmetrically triangular pattern - that was alarming. 29

In a respectable establishment, they would have been either kicked out or called a cab a long time ago, but in the seedy bar, a patron was a patron and a dollar was a dollar. 30

The scotch burned a fiery trail down his throat as he threw back another shot as though it were water. Making a vague tapping motion on the counter with the empty glass, he signalled the young bartender for another. 31

“Another,” he slurred. Turning to Allison, he sent the beautiful brunette a sloppy grin. “I think she wants one too.”32

She smirked back and giggled a little as though it was the funniest thing she had heard in a long time and he felt his heart tug a little: it was good she was forgetting about the cheating *bunny* of a boyfriend that sent her to this bar.33

Soon that one more had turned into another three, and then another five.34

Then, everything faded into oblivion.35

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Hayden groaned as he tried to black out the light filtering through his lacy white curtains, bathing the bedroom of soft tones in a warm glow. 37

Wait. 38

That wasn't right. 39

His bedroom didn't have a soft tonal colour scheme (whatever the hell that meant) and he most certainly didn't have frilly curtains. 40

A memory flashed through his mind, quick as lightning and its connotations, in his life anyway, just as rare. A fiery hot touch here. A quick intake of breath there. A brief moment when blue eyes met green. As he regained consciousness, he began to put those memories into a sequence of events. A horrible, bad, very dangerous sequence of events. 41

Uh, uh. He had to be wrong.42

Then he noticed an Allison shaped lump was sprawled across his torso like he was a more comfortable pillow than the soft silky one laying abandoned on the other side of the bed. 43

God, no. 44

Even if he had some how been able to explain the weight on his chest, waking up in somebody else’s bed for the first time in months posed a problem. The pounding hangover that made him want to go to sleep and never wake up was another piece of evidence toward the very, very bad conclusion that it was growing increasingly hard to ignore. And the clothes littering the ground were the icing on the cake. As the rest of the memories came crashing back like a choppy badly edited technicolour movie, the remainder of the previous night proved lost in an alcohol induced blue45

After a second of stunned silence, he had but one word echoing through his mind: Crap.46

He was drawn back to reality by a low groan from somewhere beneath the creamy expanse of bare back that led to a messy twist of brown hair. He gulped awkwardly as her green eyes lazily fluttered open and stared at him in hazy confusion. The same circus of expressions played over her face that had only recently moved on from his. Confusion; remembrance; understanding; shock; and finally, the most demeaning for him, horror. 47

“Oh my god.” It was a kind of whisper. An automatic response that rushed out of her mouth before she'd realised her brain had even responded. After a moment of hesitation, she looked back at him, making sure a fair share of the doona was still clutched around her chest. 48

“We...” She trailed off and let her hand finish the rest of the sentence. He found it ironic that two doctors were reduced to using a vague hand gesture to express one of the most biologically natural actions. Her finger had frozen in mid air from where it had been pointing between the two of them, and her eyes looked up at him with dread. She was expecting an answer.49

With a pointed look at the clothes strewn around the room he nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” Somehow, just a tiny bit of sarcasm had leaked into his tone.50

She let her pounding head drop into her hand – the other hadn't released its iron grip on her remaining article of modesty. “God, how much did I drink.”51

He sensed it was somewhat rhetorical, but he wasn't too fond of awkward silence either, so he cleared his throat and sent her a grimace. “We both had...” he searched for the right words, “a lot more than we should have. Scotch was your weapon of choice, I think.”52

She groaned again. 53

Then that awkward silence he had been worried about descended on the room like flies on a carcass. Only, this wasn't the remains of a poor animal, it was a complete facade in ruins. The denied feelings, the ignored smouldering looks, the dismissed chemistry: now the very illusion their relationship was platonic had been shattered. For the two doctors that had spent so much time convincing themselves and each other that nothing more than companionship existed between them, it was a terrible shock to have every scrap of deniability stolen. 54

They each focussed on the other side of the bedroom, lost in their respective thoughts, until, in unison, they broke the silence. 55

“We should just forget this, right?” Him.56

“This has to change things, right?” Her. 57

Their 'right's synchronised perfectly. Content wise, nothing had come even close to synchronising.58

They both sighed and turned away from each other. Allison decided that if this was going to become a habit she would have to buy a bigger bed: having mere centimetres separate them did nothing to alleviate the tension. 59

The morning sunlight was pouring in through the open curtains now, and with the massive hangover he was nursing, Hayden couldn't take it anymore. Seeing as she still had the doona clutched around her chest, he grabbed the sheet and managed the scramble into his jeans. Not, of course, before he nearly tripped over trying to put both feet in the same leg hole, already off balance from having to hold the sheet. 60

He pulled the curtains together with a little more force than necessary, and turned back around to face her. His face looked a lot like that of a man on his way to the gallows. He picked up his shirt, the first thing he saw, and threw it to her. She slid it on gracefully, even though it was sizes to big. 61

Clearing his throat to stop himself admiring how natural it was too see her in his clothes, he moved his eyes back to hers. The brunette threw him an expression that fell somewhere between a grin and a grimace. 62

“I guess we should talk, huh.”63

He winced as possibly the most clichéd words in the history of pathetic phrases collided with a reference to one of the conversations he hated the most: awkward, tense and emotionally charged. And this morning he would get to deal with it while he juggled a head containing rhinoceros' with jackhammers and a stomach that was clearly revolting against the amount of alcohol it had been subjected to. 64

Perfect. Just Perfect. 65

With a sigh, he followed her into the living room to have the one conversation that could change his life forever.66

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Three Years Later68

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It was dark. Not the half-hearted grey that battles with light toward the end of the day, but that all encompassing blackness that seems to crowd in around you, stealing the breath from your lungs and the sight from your eyes. Silver ribbons of light twirled outward from the moon, falling through the thousands of kilometres of darkness onto the earth below. Stars were dotted around the half crescent, silver drops of light on the black canvas of God or Allah or Ahura Mazda or The Flying Spaghetti Monster or whatever deity you choose to believe in. A stunning last touch on a beautiful artwork of nature, regardless.70

Far beneath the delicate heavens a man sat in silence, his unfocussed gaze pointed at an expanse of chocolately wood that shined in the combined light of the moon and the far away shadowy streetlights. The wood belonged to a baby grand piano – beautiful dark wood that was the polar opposite of the sharp ivory keys. The stunningly elegant instrument would normally be out of place in a well mown park, but tonight it fitted in perfectly. The remains of a wedding were scattered around the clearing: plastic white chairs with pink bows arranged into two sides; the awning on a small stage where just hours ago the bride and groom stood waiting with nervousness, excitement and anticipation for their first kiss as man and wife; the pink ribbons that had been deserted by the flower girls after the ceremony. A black canister lay beside the flowers that bloomed in explosions of colour, a remnant of the top grade photographer the happy couple had payed an arm and a leg to capture all of the memories being made.71

It had been a busy, bustling place. Everybody in their Sunday best with outrageous hats and polished shoes. Children's faces had been washed and pesky pieces of hair had lost in a Mexican stand off with the hairspray can. Noise and laughter and the soft lull of conversation had filled the air until a couple of hours ago, when the party had left in limousines and decorated cars for the reception. Then...then it had become a very quiet place. 72

Hayden, the man at the piano, let his fingers rest on the keys, his practiced hands naturally finding their places despite the lack of light. After a moment of hesitation, they began to gracefully slide up and down the ivories as a heart wrenchingly slow and melancholy tune started to unravel into the dark night.73

The thing that draws us, as the whole of humanity, to music is its flexibility. A loud screeching riff on a base guitar can symbolise anger, rebellion, rage; the happy playful passage from a violin can make us smile and adopt a 'glass half full' mindset; the voice of our favourite singer can make us sing and dance and laugh with abandon. Or in this case, music can inexplicably touch some chord deep inside not our body, but our soul, making our hearts speed up and our eyes blink back tears. 74

The music swelled in the relative silence, each note swirling into the darkness and lingering until another chord came to take its place. Had there been an audience, every person would have been struck with awe, and the applause would have been thunderous. But he was the only one braving the dark night, and he was too engrossed in the music and his thoughts to notice the beautiful symphony escaping into the emptiness.75

Those said thoughts were wandering into dangerous territory, down in the deep recesses of his mind that housed the things he tried to avoid. Like imagining being caught in a burning building, or kidnapped by a crazy psycho killer. Or, thoughts of her .76

Yes, he and Allison had fallen under the term 'happily engaged' until the day before his brothers wedding (whose remains were scattered around the park).77

That fateful morning had been three years ago. They did talk, and it was awkward, but in the end they got together and there had only been a couple of rough patches when they had dared to look back. 78

Joyfully engaged hadn't been a way Hayden ever thought he would describe himself, but until last night that was the term he would have used. He, the king of abruptness and sarcasm, had been in love for three years. Happily. 79

A painful tug in his chest made him rethink his internal dialog. 80

'Right, make that two years, eleven months and twenty-nine days.'81

Because on the happiest day of his brothers life, the mans heart was broken and the shattered pieces were digging at his chest.82

'Oh, maybe now, crappily should be substituted in for happily, too'.83

And with that final amendment, he reached for the bottle of whiskey. If he could think a word with four syllables, then there was no way he was drunk enough to block out the feelings yet. 84

He reached for the bottle that had left a ring of condensation on the otherwise perfect finish of the piano, and continued playing away his anger and pain, letting the aching melody twist through the night. 85

And as the darkness intensified – it is always the heaviest right before dawn – a figure appeared in the dim streetlights. He didn't notice at first, he was too involved, but as she came closer he jerked his head away from the piano and spun around. A faint drunken scowl decorated his face at being disturbed, but it dissipated when he recognised the woman. 86

Allison, hugging her arms around her body to fight off the cold, walked up to him, a look of anxiousness clear in her green eyes. 87

“I'm sorry.”88

He didn't know what to say. Anger and confusion and pure pain at her betrayal were still coursing through his system; his pride and his belief in the 'happily ever after' heavily spurned. But somehow that faded when she was staring at him with that look on her face. 89

As the first piercing ray of light pointed through the sky and broke the darkness he drew his eyes back to hers. And while the new dawn was breaking the man at the piano opened his mouth and gave her his answer. 90