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, and 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 dudes, well, they don't come to Freddy Freeloaders anymore. On the Chicago jazz scene, Freddy's doesn't even list. Then again, Brian reminded me that it is 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 are 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, that 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 weekend, then I'd better listen to what they are telling me.

So I make up stories. This one is about you.

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 hot shot 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 it 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 you, two weeks ago. I didn't notice you at first; you were at the table in the back corner, with five or six other women. A couple of them knew the kid on piano. You seemed to slip by me unnoticed, which is unusual. The only time a woman comes to a jazz club is if they are 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 your table a few times over the course of the set. Your friends were talking. Certainly 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 listen—they would witness this poor bastard pouring is 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 you. When I first saw you, you were lost in the music. While your friends chatted, you listened; when they laughed, you shushed; when they nudged, you kept your eyes closed. You were consumed. Your head swayed in rhythm to the slow swing laid down by Brian, your chin rose to the arpeggio of my melody, lines of pleasure and pain squinted from your eyes when the kid added his ballsy colour to the comping chords, you slid back lower in your chair and opened your legs, ever so slightly, welcoming the resonance of the pedal tone that grabbed the room and shook it. And I loved you 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 am back. Ronny doesn't need to look at us; he feels that we are heading back 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 that the bass solo is over, and that it is 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 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 am 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. For I know, just like Ronnie knows intuitively what note comes next, that I can feel your presence in the room. You have come back.

You are with a man—your lover, your mate, a friend, a partner. You lead him to the table, front and centre, the table that you have chosen for him. There is no hesitation as to which seat you will take. You pull the chair out and turn it to face the stage. You fold the skirt of your short, black cocktail dress below your thighs as you sit, cross your legs and look up, to see me staring at you.

I feel my face redden as our eyes lock. I turn away and perform an unnecessary inspection of my reed, before nodding to Ronnie. He takes the cue, pulls his bass to him, leans over and plucks the opening riff of "So What." 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 warm and stale air of the room has, in part, your exhausted breath mixed with the very atmosphere of this jazz club. I inhale your being, I fill my lungs with you, and, there, inside me, I let your 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 your passage, my throat, trained by a lifetime of practice to be open and round and full; you pass into my mouth and I taste you now—honey, lavender and musk; across my palette, and over my tongue you meet 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; you meet the cool brass of my horn, in which every bend and tone hole and pad that add colour and flavour to our dance has been conceived by the eyes of 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 brass, each rub of his hand or touch of his tool a contribution to our hymn; you brush across my finger tips as I direct where you shall pass, the perfect combination of openings that gives us pitch; with the contraction of my diaphragm you are 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 that 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 you feel it too. Your eyes are closed. Your hair, slightly curled, falls on your shoulders as your head tilts back to receive our song. Your mouth is turned upwards in an ever-so-slight smile. I take in the vision of your beauty. You are not that tall, are you? I guess it is the way that you carry yourself when you walk or how you sit so straight, that gives the impression that you are much taller. And the way that your dress clings to your curves, a neckline that plunges into the canyon of your 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, like I am somewhere in the desert of Utah. Your dress accentuates your shape with the same tension and release as a great blues lick: the incitement of the implied. You have a glass of Prosecco bubbling beside you.

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

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. We haven't played this song in years, but we have done it at a variety of tempos in the past.

"Sexy time," I say, grinning.

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

Looking into your eyes, I lick my lips, then, slowly, I open my mouth and slide my tongue under the reed. You are 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 is little more than the hush of air escaping from the sides of my mouth. Shhhhh, it's alright, I whisper into your ear.

But it builds. My note begins to fill the room. It is metal and wood and wind, it is a blanket thrown over you, fluttering above, then floating down, wrapping and covering you. 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 your flesh. I match the pitch you send 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 your mind's ear. The pause is painful. I feel eyes and ears and hands on me, listening for the next breath, hoping there will be a sign of life, another respiration. There is 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 is 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 that it takes for you to feel relief. It is calming to know that another note will follow. There is life again. The pattern repeats, and repeats. Chaos is replaced by order. You and I, alone and together, connect in the pattern of E and F. I reach out my hand, you grasp it, and we begin our slow dance, six notes long.

And on the sixth note, my band joins us, hitting the chord, firmly. You jolt, surprised by the intrusion. I sense your shock, but I will hold you until it passes. You press against me as Brian rolls on his cymbals and Ron slides up to teeter on the major seventh. The chord dangles above us and you want it to end. Please stop.

Then silence.

We begin again. This time, the band joins my six note motif. I have lifted you. You feel my strong arms pick you up and carry you. There is more 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 you. You are leaning back in your chair, eyes closed, hands on your lap. You are at peace. You are open. You are ready.

My tone softens to a hushed whisper and the band takes up a gentle swinging motion as I approach you. You know the melody, but it is different this time, played a little higher now. Like the sensation of a familiar stranger laying hands on you, he knows where to touch you, 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. This 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 you.

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

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 is little more than rustling sheets. I move with purpose, and with the hypnotic fluidity of an illusionist.

My eyes open to see you. I see how your body shifts in response. You uncross your legs; your hands pretend to smooth your skirt against your thigh. Your back is arched. You invite me in.

The song surrounds you. Its volume and intensity growing, the soft sax lines are now more forceful, now hard and determined. It towers above you, the weight of my song on you, pressing into you. And you embrace it. You open to receive me, you 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 as I growl and moan a high D. The band feels the climax of my solo and grabs the note with us. They hold us up, cymbals rolling and 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, into the streets, on a stained Chicago night.

Then silence.

We catch our breath. Your eyes open. We stare, and in the unspoken language of our song, I play the final notes: Stay, little valentine, stay. Each day is Valentine's Day.

As the applause begins, you stand. You lean into your partner and say something in his ear, and he smiles. You pick up your clutch purse, pull out some bills and place them on the table, take a large gulp of wine, draining what is left in your glass, and place it atop to the money. He stands, then follows you as you walk past the stage. I inhale deeply, trying to capture the scent of your passing. You don't look at me, you don't look back. You don't need to.

"Happy Valentine's Day," I say as you leave.

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"My Funny Valentine" by Richard Rogers. Performed by B.G. Davies.