The guys said it would be a slow night—usually is on a Sunday down here. On Saturday, the cats with money come in from the suburbs to paint the town, drop a few bills, then spend the night in their loft. Or if a guy is lucky, he ends up at somebody else's place. But the Sunday crowd typically wanders into this pit of a club after dinner, has a drink or two, then leaves early to catch the train back home. They just wish they were hip enough to be in the city on a Saturday night, but they've got to get the kids to soccer in the morning. And the hip cats, well, they don't come to Freddy Freeloaders anymore. In the Chicago jazz scene, Freddy's doesn't even list. Then again, Brian reminded me that it's Valentine's Day, so we might see a few lovers out for an after dinner drink.

It's funny what you see from the stage, how you can stand here under the one floodlight, the audience looking at you with your eyes closed, thinking that you're into the groove, just diggin' the music. Fact is, on most nights, your hands and breath and ears are playing with the guys alright, but your mind is elsewhere. Face it—the chord changes are so predictable, the groove so goddamn friendly, you could sleep standing up and keep blowing. Folks don't dig anything too outside. They want their jazz to be smooth, their saxophones smoky. They don't want to have to think when they listen. And if I want this gig every second Sunday, then I'd better listen to what they're telling me.

So I make up stories.

It was two weeks ago, on a Friday. We were playing our usual three set gig, except we had this kid sitting in on keys. Nice kid. Some hotshot player from the University, but nice hands. Hard to find kids today who are not all jacked up on themselves, thinking they can kick our asses, but this kid knew his place. I like giving these punks a chance to gig downtown every now and then. Good experience, having to play the third-rate clubs with tramps like us. Might make them reconsider their career choice. Go into dentistry or something. Horn players need dentists who understand embouchure, except most of us can't pay for it. But, I have my teaching, so I'm good, plus, I get to know the young players who will bring in the crowds. I feel for Ronny though, a whole life spent on the road and in the clubs. Bass players don't need teeth anyway.

This is the sort of shit I'm thinking about, instead of listening for the chord change to the bridge. And I'm thinking about how I first saw her, two weeks ago. I didn't notice her at first; she was at the table in the back corner, with five or six other women. A couple of them knew the kid on piano. She seemed to slip by me unnoticed, which is unusual. The only time a woman comes to a jazz club is if they're with their boyfriend or husband; it was odd to see a group of girls on a night out at Freddy's.

I glanced over to their table a few times during the course of the set. Her friends were talking, definitely not listening to the brilliant bass solo Ronny was laying down in "Autumn Leaves." I wanted to yell at everyone to shut up, because—if they would just fuckin' listen—they would witness this poor bastard pouring his soul out, his essence, all he has left, spilling out his guts, covering the ancient double bass, leaking onto the stage floor like spilled beer, in a wasted puddle of genius that will never, ever, be heard again.

But not her. When I first saw her, she was lost in the music. While her friends chatted, she listened; when they laughed, she shushed; when they nudged, she kept her eyes closed. She was consumed. Her head swayed in rhythm to the slow swing laid down by Brian, her chin rose to the arpeggio of my melody, lines of pleasure and pain squinted from her eyes when the kid added his ballsy colour to the comping chords; she slid back lower in her chair and opened her legs, ever so slightly, welcoming the resonance of the pedal tone that grabbed the room and shook it. And I loved her then.

Brian clicks his stick against the snare drum rim on beat four to get my attention. I guess I should be driving this, but, whatever. My eyes meet his and he knows I'm back. Ronny doesn't need to look at us; he feels that we're heading to the top.

All of me, why not take all of me my mind sings as my fingers work down the horn. There is redemption in the melody.

Of the handful here tonight, two or three turn their head back toward the stage in recognition of the familiar motif as my tenor sax sings out the descending triad. All–of– me. Three guys clap a subdued applause because they know now the bass solo is over, and that it's polite to acknowledge the soloist's art, whether they were listening or not.

Why not take all of me. Dat Dat Da— My fingers fly through the B blues scale as Brian crashes the cymbals. I wait, then grab the high C sharp and growl into my mouthpiece.

Thump. Eight hands clap.

I give a quick nod to the back wall. "Thank you very much," I mumble in my saxman voice. I turn and reach for my glass of water on the drum riser.

Through the corner of my eye and in the glare of the stage light, I see a couple enter the dark club and make their way to a table. With my back to the room, I take a long drink. The water provides relief to my scratched throat. Brian and Ronny are looking at me, waiting for the next audible cue. But I take my time. To the audience, I'm sure, it looks like I am channeling the spirit of Coltrane; to the boys, it looks like I am trying to remember the progression of the next song. But me, I'm taking a moment to catch my breath, to slow down my pulse and to compose myself. Because I know, just like Ronny knows intuitively what note comes next,  I can feel her presence in the room. She has come back.

She is with a man—her lover, her mate, a friend, a partner. She leads him to the table, front and centre, the table she has chosen for him. There is no hesitation as to which seat she'll take. She pulls the chair out and turns it to face the stage. She folds the skirt of her short, black cocktail dress below her thighs as she sits, crosses her legs and looks up, to see me staring at her.

I feel my face redden as our eyes lock. I turn away and perform an unnecessary inspection of my reed, before nodding to Ronny. He takes the cue, pulls his bass to him, leans over and plucks the opening riff of "So What." Da dum, da dum, da dum–dum. I need a song with a bass feature to give me time to calm myself, to get back into the space.

The simple two note dah-dat of my melody begins with a deep inhale. The hot, stale air of the room has, in part, her exhausted breath mixed into the very atmosphere of this jazz club. I inhale her being, I fill my lungs with her, and, there, inside me, I let her spirit mate with mine. Together we shall make music.

I begin the long exhale that will become our song: from the very core of my being, I breathe new life into my instrument; through my windpipe, my trachea allows her passage, my throat, trained by a lifetime of practice, is open and round and full; she passes into my mouth and I taste her now—honey, lavender, musk; across my palette and over my tongue she meets the steel and wood of my mouthpiece; I give shape and tone to our song and with the subtle pressure and touch of my lips I create our opus; she meets the cool brass of my horn, where every bend and tone hole and pad that add colour and flavour to our dance has been conceived by a master craftsman, half a century ago, as he looked down on his workbench in a plant in Cleveland, his caress over the bare skeleton of raw brass, each rub of his hand or touch of his tool a contribution to our hymn; she brushes across my finger tips as I direct where she shall pass, the perfect combination of openings that gives us pitch; with the contraction of my diaphragm she is sent forth into the room to bounce and reverberate from every wall and table and chair, and from the hands of the builders who crafted these things, the touch of every person who is here or who has ever walked on this floor or played on this stage, or sat at the bar, or fell in love here, or whose spilled tears were wiped from the tabletop, and our song is given depth. We are playing the song of our existence. Dah-dat.

I think she feels it too. Her eyes are closed. Her hair, slightly curled, falls on her shoulders as her head tilts back to receive our song. Her mouth is turned upwards in an ever-so-slight smile. I take in the vision of her beauty. She isn't that tall, is she? I guess it's the way she carries herself when she walks or how she sits so straight, that gives the impression that she's much taller. And the way that her dress clings to her curves, a neckline that plunges into the canyon of her cleavage, drawing me in there. I want to explore those natural features, like a tourist, run my hands along the red rock walls of the canyon, somewhere in the desert of Utah. Her dress accentuates her shape with the same tension and release as a great blues lick: the incitement of the implied. She has a glass of Prosecco bubbling beside her.

I see her man look at her. Does she think he is wondering what she's feeling? how she's breathing our song? He is tall and slender—a runner, most likely. He has a caring look about him and I bet we would get along fine if I was at a dinner party with the two of them. I don't think he particularly cares for jazz. I'm guessing it was her choice to come here tonight, after a touching Valentine dinner. She's probably so busy that it takes a special occasion, like Valentine's Day, to get her to drop things for a while and enjoy each other again. I hope she had a wonderful meal and held hands and they looked into each other's eyes once more and remembered why she loves the man, and he sees in her the same confident, beautiful woman that I do, and he treats her with the love that she deserves.

We end on the expected Miles Davis suspended chord. I turn to the boys.

"'My Funny Valentine'—C minor," I murmur to them.

"What time?" Brian asks. 

"Sexy time," I say, grinning.

I turn and face her. All eyes are on us as I stare directly into hers. There is an uncomfortable awkwardness that everyone feels, and I let it build, just a bit longer.

Looking into her eyes, I lick my lips, then, slowly, I open my mouth and slide my tongue under the reed. She is watching. My lips close over the mouthpiece of my saxophone. I pull my tenor sax in front of me. Just a few more seconds of suspense, then I breathe life into my horn.

I begin on a mid-range D. A whisper at first, it's little more than the hush of air escaping from the sides of my mouth. Shhhhh, it's alright, I breathe into her ear.

But it builds. My note begins to fill the room. It's metal and wood and wind, it's a blanket thrown over her, fluttering above, floating down, wrapping and covering her. Shhh, it's okay, just enjoy.

I let the note grow. No vibrato, no accompaniment, only perfect pitch. My call meets the returning echo of the room, the tones and harmonics bounce back to me, rebounding off her flesh. I match the pitch she sends back with my new sound, our new sound. It magnifies, it multiplies. We feel the waves crashing into our chests.

Then silence.

The sustained reverberations decay down the hall, toward the door, then die. The memory of the pitch is all that lives, still, in her mind's ear. The pause is painful. I feel eyes and ears and hands on me, listening for my next breath, hoping there will be a sign of life, another respiration. There's a circle of faces over me, friends and family, glancing at each other. No one is willing to break the silence. Should someone check his pulse? At least he's at peace, someone should think—he has lived a good life. Suddenly, I lift my head from the pillow of my death bed and I watch them jump back, hands clutching chests. I do this with my second note, an E that I hit hard, let hang for a second, then cut off the airflow again, choking the tone in mid-air.

Then silence.

The third note, an F natural, is played as a mirror of the last. Two tones are all it takes for her to feel relief. It's calming to know another note will follow. There is life again. The pattern repeats, and repeats. Chaos replaced by order. The two of us, alone and together, connected by the hope of a half-step, that F will follow E. I reach out my hand, she grasps it, and we begin our slow dance, six notes long.

And on the seventh note, my band joins, hitting the chord, firmly. She jolts, surprised by the intrusion. I sense her shock, but I will hold her until the fear passes. She presses against me as Brian rolls on his cymbals and Ronny slides up to teeter on the major seventh. The chord dangles above us and she wants it to end. Please stop.

Then silence.

We begin again. This time, the band joins my six-note motif. I have lifted you. She feels my strong arms pick her up and carry her. There is movement now; in the almost-rhythm of the six notes, I lead you, and on the seventh, we rest. The repetition is broken and my melody rises to the high C and I lift you hi—gh / You make me sm—ile / I gently lay you do—wn (now the II-V cadence) with my he—art.

I look at her. She is leaning back in her chair, eyes closed, hands on her lap. She is at peace. She is open. She is ready.

My tone softens to a hushed whisper and the band takes up a gentle swinging motion as I approach her. She knows the melody, but it's different this time, played a little higher now. Like the sensation of a familiar stranger laying hands on you, he knows where to touch, the perfect pressure, the slowness of movement. He knows just what you need. Someone you have never met, yet his caress is so familiar, so welcomed.

I let the beauty of the song play its magic now. The melody, so simple, so perfect, takes over and I merely follow its lead. My hands press into my horn and my fingers massage the vibration of air into waves, into pitch, into song. Into her.

Does she feel my touch as my fingers slowly trill upwards? Does she feel the heat of my breath? Feel the shiver in her back and neck as my tongue licks and flutters? The song creeping ever so higher, closer, note by note. I am playing her.

The band falls into a slow, sensuous groove, and my true art begins. I am the soloist, the improviser, the creator, in tune with each movement and moan and breath. I work from the bend of the bass string, from the brush that tickles ever so subtly across the snare drum, falling just behind the beat, the cymbal ride that's little more than rustling sheets. I move with purpose, and with the hypnotic fluidity of an illusionist.

My eyes open to see her. I see how her body shifts in response. She uncrosses her legs; her hands pretend to smooth her skirt against her thigh. Her back is arched. She invites me in.

The song surrounds her. Its volume and intensity growing, the soft sax lines are now more forceful, hard and determined. It towers above, the weight of my song pressing down. And she embraces it. She opens to receive me, to pull me in.

Drums crash to my rhythm, the bass thumps and pounds. I direct the rhythmic drive with the repetition of three notes, Da da dah. I let it build. Da da dah. Each thrust, a little deeper. Da da dah. A little faster. Da da dah. The room spins. The waves crash. Da da dahhhhhh—I scream into my mouthpiece and growl a high D. The band feels the crest and grabs the note with us. They hold us up, cymbals rolling, bass beating. We are suspended.

Then, an unmeasured moment of floating, and they let us down, gently. The wave slowly recedes. The screams, faded and spent, spill through the room and down the hall and into the dark streets of a stained Chicago night.

Then silence.

We catch our breath. Her eyes open. We stare, and in the unspoken language of our song, I play the final notes. Each day is Valentine's Day.

As the applause begins, she stands. She leans into her partner and says something in his ear, and he smiles. She picks up her clutch purse, pulls out some bills and places them on the table, takes a large gulp of wine, draining what is left in her glass, and places it on top of the money. He stands, then follows her as she walks past the stage. I inhale deeply, trying to capture the scent of her passing. She doesn't look at me, she doesn't look back.