The Piano Man (Iwaoi)

Chapter 2

       The day after his last concert, Tooru slept for almost 20 hours because he wasn't sure what else he could do. At around five in the evening, when he rolled over in bed and couldn't find it in himself to close his eyes again (he didn't have any sleep left inside him), the sun was still up and seeping through his drawn curtains. A soft, haunting Yiruma melody was weaving through his ears and his pillow wasn't stained with tears, the way he might have expected, but he could taste all of the tears he had been holding in sitting on his tongue like salt reserves. He reached his hand out to his nightstand, groped for a little bit, before he found his glasses and put them on. Then he grabbed his phone and checked for messages. There were about ten missed calls from his mother, a message from his sister, a few stray emails that he couldn't be bothered to check. He covered his face with his forearm and tossed his phone to the end of his bed. Maybe he would get a cat to keep him company. Or a bird. Or a fish. He could name it something silly like Tuna-chan, even if it wasn't a tuna, and rant to it about how much he missed piano.

        He forced himself to stand up and take a shower, because he smelled like full concert halls and crusty dreams. He listened to Chopin while he showered, he hummed along, he ignored the achiness and the redness in his fingers, like snakes, in his chocolate hair. He was alone in a big house, and he felt the dull twists and turns of loneliness in his stomach. There was nobody that he could think of, nobody he wanted to talk to about this crumble of his life, except for the one person that he couldn't talk to. The one person he could never run to again. Without really meaning to, he walked over to his record player and started playing whatever was in there. It just so happened to be Elvis Presley—he couldn't remember why he'd put that in there. He got dressed, ignored the pings on his phone, and decided in the midst of imagining blue suede shoes that he was going to treat himself to dinner. In the city. He would take the train and go out to a nice restaurant, all alone, and order the most expensive appetizer, the most expensive entrée, the most expensive dessert. He would get drunk by himself on the most expensive bottle of wine there and, rosy-cheeked, he would come back home and stay up and drink more wine until he forgot that, tomorrow, he still wouldn't be playing piano.

        When he called the restaurant in Roppongi and told them he wanted to make a reservation for seven o'clock, they said that they were full.

        "I'm sorry, sir. Tonight is very busy."

        "Please, it's just for one. That's simple, right?"

        "I really am sorry, but—"

        "It's a reservation for Tooru Oikawa," he interrupted. There was silence on the other line for a moment. "But I suppose if you really don't have any tables, I can go somewhere else for the evening."

        "W-well, actually, I think we can fit you in, Mr. Oikawa."

        He decided to put in his contact lenses instead of glasses. Then he gelled his hair, put on a very nice suit, sprayed some cologne that a friend had bought for him a few months back to celebrate his new status as highest paid pianist in the world, ironically enough, and walked to the Jiyuugaoka station. From there he bought his ticket, waited at the platform, signed a few stray autographs from the small aspiring pianists who recognized him, got on the train, listened to The Yellow River Piano Concerto. It was never anything he would dare to play, but he loved it and he never listened to his own recordings anyway. Once his stop at Roppongi station arrived, he left the train, and finally admitted to himself that he must have looked very strange, walking through Tokyo's streets by himself in a suit and earphones. Tooru had grown used to being alone because music tended to keep him company.

        He didn't even bother looking at what the menu choices were—he stayed true to himself and ordered the most expensive of each course. And, when he looked back at the evening, he couldn't even remember what food he ate. But it was good enough that he accompanied it with three glasses of wine and a goofy smile. By the time dessert arrived, he was significantly tipsy. He'd always been a lightweight and he knew it and he took advantage of it. He was laughing at himself a little bit, giggling at the thoughts in his head. The music he heard was, predictably, Elvis Presley. He hummed it out loud while he ate. Being alone and a bit drunk was a great situation for people-watching. He drew out a story for each person at this excessively extravagant restaurant and composed little melodies for them. He wondered if any of them recognized him over their golden cutlery and flickering jasmine candles, making a note to tell them to fuck off if they came over to him.