Julia

The sadness of his smile caught me somewhat off guard. Unsure of how else to react, I tried to smile back, but the expression spoke too much to the way I really felt inside, and made masking my raw heart that much more of a strain. As wildly unstable as my emotions were even now, I had to keep myself under control. I couldn't stop Freddie from going home, nor would I dare to try- but over my dead body would we part ways on anything but good terms.

Even if that means maintaining a guilty conscience in the process? I challenged myself.

Then a second later, I was saved from my own terminal logic. Corey slipped a bit too carefully up behind Freddie's chair and slid a tablet near his right hand- which Freddie didn't notice till about three seconds later and jumped in surprise.

"Corey! My God!" he cried.

"Sorry, man," Corey apologized, the stifled chuckles clear in his voice. "I was just bringing you the band's, uh- song list."

Freddie recovered quickly. "Oh?"

"They're also back on in five minutes, apparently," he went on. "Just a heads-up."

"Right, thank you. By the way, um- tell your manager or whatever that I don't want any sort of announcement."

Corey frowned. "No?"

"No, I just want to go up there, play three songs, and leave. That was the deal."

The young man's face seemed to pinch. "Are you sure?"

"Very. If people recognize me, that's one thing, but I don't want to sort of advertise any more than I already have."

"All right, I'll tell him," Corey sighed, "but, uh- I think it may be a little too late as far as advertising goes."

Eyes narrowing ever so slightly, Freddie slowly turned to look back up at him. "What does that mean, exactly?"

He cleared his throat. "Well, uh- he kind of posted on Facebook and Twitter that you were going to be here, so-"

"I beg your pardon?" Freddie's voice was deadpan.

"Yeah, he did; that's why there's a line out the door trying to get in to see you-"

"There is?" I looked around wildly, but the restaurant did not seem any busier than it had been since I walked in.

"Yes, they're all sort of waiting outside, and we can't turn them all away; they've been promised entry as soon as you get up there and start."

Freddie blinked a couple of times, very slowly. "Is there a back way out of here?"

"There is. Through the kitchen. You've already paid, so you can slip out that way if you would rather."

"Fine; you can show us at the end. But first tell your manager not to f---ing announce me, all right?"

"I will. Anything else I can do?"

Lips twitching, he nodded, crooked his finger, and had Corey lean down so he could whisper in his ear. I don't know what Freddie told him, or asked of him, but it made Corey's eyes bug wide and his lips part in shock.

"I'm, uh- I mean, yeah, I could, but- are you sure?" Corey stammered.

"Why not? It's not the Garden after all, it's just for fun."

"In that case- just let me know when, and I'll- yeah. Wow. Okay. Should be fun." He hustled away, eyes still spinning in his head.

I was endlessly curious what he just told him, but considering he had whispered it to ensure I wouldn't hear a single word, I refrained. Freddie shot me a somewhat apologetic look, and I smiled back, discreetly patting his hand.

"May I assume this was not part of the plan?" I asked.

"Oh, it was," he quipped, eyes twinkling. "I planned for all of this, actually. Even the snow."

"Oh, you did?" I laughed.

"Of course."

"And how did you manage to do that?"

Freddie smirked. "Oh, I have my ways."

"Evidently."

Lifting his chin, Freddie took the tablet in his hands, briefly stared at it as though trying to remember what he was supposed to do next. An instant later, the "aha" moment struck, and he gently swiped his finger up the screen. Call me crazy, but I think I saw his mouth curve in true satisfaction. I read over his shoulder, trying to keep up as he quickly scrolled further and further down, absorbing each title at a lightning-fast rate.

"Certainly not short on Billy Joel, are they?" he hummed glibly as he made his way down the catalog of what seemed to be at least fifty songs penned and performed by the Piano Man.

"Or Bublé," I noted. "Have they got any Queen?"

"Not that I see," he murmured. "But I'm not in the mood to sing our songs at the moment, there's enough mayhem afoot."

"True. Why speak of the devil, they know 'Happy Xmas.' You should do that one."

"I can't do it by myself, dear- unless you intend to join me on the Yoko parts."

I rolled my eyes. "Never mind."

"Oh! You know- speaking of John's solo career, actually," Freddie murmured, setting the tablet aside again, "I never did ask what you thought of mine."

I blinked. "You mean Mr. Bad Guy?"

"Mm," he nodded. "I know you've heard at least a few tracks from it, I've heard you sing them."

"Oh, you have?" I couldn't help smiling.

He nodded, looking away from my eyes a bit shyly. "So, um- what did you think of it?"

This was a loaded question. I loved almost all of Freddie's music, I considered him a musical and artistic genius, as well as one hell of a showman. All that being said, if we were being purely truthful, I did not rank Mr. Bad Guy among his best compositions. Not to say I hadn't enjoyed listening to it, because I had; furthermore, I considered it better than Roger's or Brian's pre-1985 solo ventures, to be sure (not to mention that Freddie's solo album also outperformed theirs on the charts considerably). But on the whole, I preferred his work with Queen or even Montserrat Caballe over his first solo album.

Still, the last thing I wanted to do was straight up tell him so.

"I liked it," I replied.

Freddie paused mid-sip and peered doubtfully at me over the brim of his water glass, before setting it down again. "That's all?"

"What do you mean, that's all?"

"There's got to be more to it than that, is what I mean. You said you made me your life's study for seven years, I imagine you ought to have somewhat of a more sort of detailed opinion."

I hesitated. "I mean, I guess I do-"

"Oh, do go on, then! What do you think? Good? Bad? In-between? What?"

"Well," I sighed, swallowing another spoonful of custard, "how do I put this. Let's just say, that- for me, Mr. Bad Guy is a lot like Hot Space."

Freddie blinked, and folded his hands on the table. "Well- what did you think of Hot Space?"

Too late I realized that by somewhat dodging that bullet, I might have just landed myself in even more dangerous territory. Careful, careful, I warned myself. You're treading across a mine field here. Easy does it.

"I liked it," I said again, this time with a giggle.

Freddie huffed. He never did like it when I played his own evasions against him. "But darling, what does that mean?" he pressed. "And don't you dare say it means you liked it. Just-"

"I liked most of it," I blurted. "Mostly your songs anyway, and John's- but I wouldn't consider it my favorite album by you guys. That's all."

Freddie's brows knit as he nodded his head, but that obviously wasn't the answer he wanted. "Well, what was wrong with it?"

"Nothing, it's just- I don't think you guys were really very well-suited to, uh- the dance, club music kind of genre. To me, anyway. That's just my opinion."

And poor Freddie, although he didn't become angry, grew a little defensive, as though by instinct. "We were really just playing with a different sound, experimenting- trying a new direction is all."

"I know, Freddie, I know, I'm just saying-"

"Anyway, I highly doubt we would have kept going that way, it was just - I mean there were tracks on that album that weren't, you know, black-oriented or disco or whatever, there's a lot that album had to offer, but everyone seems to just look at it in terms of the dance music, and that's not all it is, any more than Mr. Bad Guy is all one sound, you know what I mean?"

"Freddie, you are preaching to the choir. I completely get what you're talking about."

"Oh, really?"

"Absolutely," I said. "People in the press, people in general, tend to jump to conclusions about your music especially, say it follows the same pattern over and over- and then you guys put out an album like Hot Space, and they tread all over it like-"

"But is that what you're saying about them yourself, dear?" Freddie cut in. "That it's all- all the same?"

"No, I'm not saying that at all, all your albums are very diverse, I just- have my preferences," I explained. "Hey, for the record, 'Made in Heaven' is absolutely divine-"

"Oh, I already knew you liked that one," Freddie chuckled, relaxing again.

"Of course I do," I replied. "I like all the tracks for the most part, just in varying degrees, and for different reasons."

"All right. I can live with that. I just- like trying new things, seeing what I can do, and what, um- what I'm not suited for. That's why I even made a solo album at all. To see if I could."

"There's an, ahem, urban legend going around that you actually wanted to split from the band and go off on-"

"Yes, I've heard things like that before," he scoffed. "But I tell you, it's a load of complete and absolute bullshit. We weren't breaking up, we aren't breaking up- I just needed something to do with myself between tours, and I wanted to see if I could do it. And I did it. And it's beautiful."

"You sure did." I hung on his every word so tightly I forgot to mask the stars appearing in my eyes.

"I mean," Freddie went on after another sip of champagne, "anyway, I would hate to just resign myself to one sort of sound, and, you know, feel like I had no other option aside of Queen- and sort of keep doing the same thing over and over again. I'd kill myself first. A lot of people- a lot of musicians do that, get themselves into a pattern and they don't break out, use the same formula as they always- and before they know it, the world has moved on and no one cares anymore.

"Because there is always a change as far as music, and really anything, is concerned - and in my line of work, the best thing you can do is pay close attention to those changes and adjust for them, even try to sort of anticipate them if you can- but the worst mistake you can make is to think to yourself that you are bigger than- that you don't have to change. Not only is that egotistical, it's deadly. Not to say you have to completely fit the new movement, but- you have to know what's in, and what's out, so you know what you yourself can, or can't, get away with- and what you can use to your own advantage. You know what I mean?"

"I do," I smiled dizzily. I loved listening to Freddie discuss things he was passionate about, like music, in which I too took a powerful interest. When I talked to him, I always came away feeling like I had learned something new, be it about him, the world at large, or even myself. Not to say of course conversations with Stuart were necessarily fruitless, but-

Ah, yes, Stuart, I remembered. The one and only Stuart. God, what an insecure little liar he's turned out to be. Oh, man. I hope he doesn't find out about me dining with Freddie tonight, too.

"Mm, all right," he nodded. "And look, I really do understand why you might feel like that. It's just- there were so many rows about that album after it came out, and before- Hot Space I mean, I guess I'm a bit, um-"

"Touchy?" I offered.

"Just a bit, not too much- but yes," he conceded. "And I'm somewhat the same way about the solo album, as it was sort of my, um- my own personal project, and I wanted to basically have a hand in every facet of the recording, and the production- so its success or its failure falls almost solely to- well, the success falls solely to me actually; if it flops then it's because of Mack."

"Some friend you are," I laughed with him. "Throw your pals under the bus that way."

Freddie waved his hands, "No, no, I'm just- no, Mack is a really wonderful guy- and he's the absolute greatest to work with. In fact, that track I told you about the other day, we were working on that with him before I ended up here- and if that album of Mr. Phantom's is any judge, it won't do too badly in the charts, so that's one thing I'm anxious to get back to, before I lose all the ideas I have for it."

All of a sudden it became three times as difficult to hold the smile. "I don't blame you."

Freddie must have seen my expression change, because then he asked, "What's wrong, dear?"

"Nothing," I lied, fumbling for a change of subject. "And, uh- Mack's your producer, right?"

"Mm. We use him a lot, anyway. Like I said, he's just amazing, I've learned a lot from him, and- his family is quite lovely, but I think I've already told you about them, so, I mean, I don't want to repeat myself."

"It's all right," I assured him. "I have no doubt they love you too. Your godson and all, that is."

"I hope so. They're nice to be around, certainly. It's, um- nice to sort of have that- I mean, they're basically the closest I'll ever get, so- I'll take it."

I frowned. "Closest you'll ever get to what?"

Freddie's tone was blank. "A family."

That came out of nowhere. For one mad instant I almost folded unto my feelings, broke down completely right there in front of Freddie. But I didn't. Rather, I kept what was supposed to be a straight face while those two little words seared my heart like red hot iron, leaving deep imprints that would not soon fade.

Oh, God, please tell me he didn't really say that.

"A- a family?" I repeated.

"Mm. You know, as in children." Freddie realized a split second later just what he was saying to me, and added hastily, "Not that I necessarily want them, of course. Don't get me wrong."

"It's okay, I didn't - think that's what you meant," I breathed out. It was suddenly so much harder to swallow now.

But he kept trying to explain, "I mean, the way I live, the way I sort of go round back home, I couldn't have a family, the way the others in the band sort of managed to do. Even if I changed it, my lifestyle, I still- probably wouldn't. Things as they are in my life, I'd probably still prefer to be free, you know- it's just what I've grown used to being. I'm much more set in my ways now, and uh- even though this last week has certainly been an exercise in, um- flexibility, I suppose, I still... No, I doubt I'll ever have children."

I bit my lip. "So you're saying, you don't want kids?" I asked quietly.

For reasons I refused to understand, the bittersweet light in his dark eyes intensified. "No, I'm not."

"Then- are you saying you do?"

"No."

"Then what did you mean by that exactly?"

Freddie's expression seemed to harden. "I think," he sighed, "I've said too much again. Damn your eyes-"

'No, you haven't, I really was just wondering what you mean when you say-"

"I don't know what I mean."

"Yes, you do. Don't do this. Please. Tell me."

"What does it matter?"

"Freddie, for God's sake, you're leaving me tonight, just answer me this one question!" I blurted.

My voice, though still respectably soft, shook violently. Freddie searched my face, his eyes wearing that same probing look as they had that morning after Antonio came and nearly spoiled everything in one fell swoop.

"If I answer you, and I'm honest about it," he whispered, "do you swear to answer me a question or two of my own, just as truthfully?"

"I do," I agreed. "I promise. Now tell me: do you, or don't you?"

Freddie didn't rush the reply. He glanced down at the hand still gripping his arm, then gazed into my eyes for a little while longer, a strange, hazy light flickering in the dark depths of his own.

At last, he answered, "Yes and no."

I waited for the explanation, but none came. I didn't know what was running through his head at this time, but I saw the look in his eyes before he quickly glanced behind him. The band was setting back up now, about to begin a new set.

"That's my cue," Freddie murmured, pulling my aviators out of his jacket pocket. "I'd better get- MMM!"

He had scarcely risen from the table when he winced and fell back dramatically in his seat again. Concerned, I asked what was wrong.

"It's my leg," he whispered.

"Are you okay?" Since this was following so intense a conversation, I didn't know whether to take him seriously.

At least, not until he said, "I would be if you hadn't kicked me."

And I burst out laughing. "You, Freddie, are a complete and utter drama queen."

"I'm glad you think my pain is so funny, darling. If you're lucky, you didn't break anything."

"Please. I did not kick you that hard."

"Ah! So you do admit it was in fact a kick!"

Good Lord, I sighed inwardly. There was clearly nothing I could say to fix this, and I had no interest in winning the current spat, innocuous though it was; so with no further argument, I just leaned in and gently kissed his cheek.

I could feel his body relax even before I pulled away. His eyes, though still gleaming, seemed to soften as they gazed into mine. Very slowly he rose, stood firmly on his own two feet, and straightened his jacket.

"Well, would you look at that," I said softly. "I guess you're okay after all."

"So far," he quipped.

"Can you still walk to the mike, you think?"

"It's possible- but I dare not chance it alone." Freddie held his hand out to me.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just walk with me, darling, and see to it I don't fall on my face," he teased gently. "Can you manage that, you think?"

My purse vibrated against the back of my chair; someone, perhaps Danny, had just sent me a text. But I barely noticed as I stood as well, allowed Freddie to take my hand in his, and walked alongside him to the front of the room.

About halfway there, Freddie did in fact freeze, and pretend as though he was about to collapse in a heap upon the carpet. Luckily, he reached out just in time, grabbed onto my arm and steadied himself.

"Thank you, darling, you're a lifesaver," he whispered, clutching facetiously at his chest.

I smiled. "Like the trapeze."

And only till I saw Freddie's jaw clench did I realize what I said. It was anybody's guess though, that he did it because of me, or if it was just a natural reflex kicking in, for he didn't address it directly and the look in his eyes didn't change. But I heard it- and far too well I remembered just how much that metaphor meant in the context of "us." Either way, he let me wallow alone in my memories as we continued, fitting the glasses over his eyes as he stepped up to the raised platform.

The manager had obviously told the musicians what was going on. When Freddie approached, the pianist, a true virtuoso in his own right, bowed his head and stood to the side, offering him the bench. Freddie nodded a thank-you, seating himself. The piano was diagonally angled so that his face and his left half were clearly visible to the entire restaurant. He had been wise to wear those sunglasses after all.

I stepped back. "All right, I think you can take it from here-"

Freddie grabbed my arm. "Not quite."

"Oh?" I bit my lip. "What do you mean?"

Freddie didn't answer. "Testing, one, two," he droned into the microphone. His voice boomed all around, bouncing off the glass and snapping folks to attention.

Then he turned to me again. "Have a seat."

I hesitated, but Freddie wasn't giving me a choice. He pulled me down on the bench with one hand, and adjusted the microphone closer to his mouth with the other.

"Smile, dear, they're looking at you," he purred, sending soft titters through the room.

It was true. Already the guests were watching us. Not all of them, you understand, and in fact, thus far, not very many; we were after all still competing with smartphones. The people waiting outside knew better- and they still had yet to be let inside. But we were being watched nonetheless, a silence falling over the restaurant. And my heart pounded.

But still I pulled my face into a too-big, clearly unreal smile, waved, and hissed through gritted teeth, "Freddie, dear, what are you doing?"

"We are breaking the ice, that's what," Freddie whispered back, absently sliding through a chromatic scale in a cursory warm-up.

"We? No, sir. I did not sign up for this-"

Freddie covered the microphone with his hand. "Darling, until I get my arse back to Munich, we are still very much in this together. So yes, I'm afraid you did."

"I don't care! This is dangerous enough all by itself."

"I know- which is why I need you to weather some of the surprise," he insisted. "After this first bit, people will relax, and you can go back to the table. Deal?"

I failed to see how the first "bit" could do anything aside of get people even more pumped, especially once this man sang his first note in public for the first time since the late 1980s. "What song?"

His eyes glowed evilly. "Why, 'Happy Xmas,' of course."

"That's what you think-"

"All right, all right, you have a choice. Either that, or 'Baby It's Cold Outside.'"

My lips pursed. "Oh, definitely not that one."

"Why not?"

"I love the song, but- for some reason it's very controversial these days, because of the whole-"

"Controversy, you say? Sold." Freddie stretched his hands over the keys. "Whenever you're ready."

"Freddie, no," I said. "It's one thing to sing with you when we're alone, or with friends, but- this is-"

But it was too late. Even as I was speaking, Freddie had announced to the combo which song he wanted, and the drummer was counting off. All eyes and even a few phone cameras, were trained on us (well, on me, anyway; I sat just so that Freddie's face was completely hidden from most any angle). Too quickly, the band began to play what sounded like the Michael Bubléarrangement, so fast I didn't even have time to stiffen with nerves. And I didn't know whether to be flattered, frightened, or thoroughly frustrated.

"What are you waiting for, dear?" Freddie spurred gently when I missed my cue to enter, forcing the dear combo to improvise.

"I'm scared," was the best I could come up with. Brilliant, isn't it? Thirty-year-old woman with a graduate degree and a decent counseling job, and all I could manage was an "I'm scared." I might as well have been that same foolish ingénue of ten years ago all over again.

"Don't be," he whispered. "Who cares about them? They're not even here. It's just you and me at this piano, and we are the only people watching us. Now, go for it. Ready? One, two, three-" He pulled his hand off the mike.

And like a charm the lyrics leapt from my lips, "I really can't stay-"

"Baby, it's cold outside," he purred the overlapping response.

"I've got to go 'way-"

"Baby, it's cold outside..." In this song Freddie stuck almost solely to his lower register, so none of those powerful tenor notes appeared while we sang this, one of my personal favorite wintertime tunes. His identity would be revealed soon enough anyway.

Thankfully it didn't take me long to get in the groove once we started. I was just very much out of practice, almost as though I had nearly forgotten what it was like to have fun in public. Nearly, mind you- but not completely. Before I knew it he and I were quite comfortably flirting line by line, making the audience and ourselves smile, a few people even singing along.

Freddie wasn't breaking the ice; he was absolutely melting it.

We had only just begun, it seemed, when the song ended, and the guests clapped and cheered. I took a deep breath, happy to have had the experience, but still glad I could now get back to the table. But before I could edge off the stage, he took hold of my knee and kept me there.

"Now what?" I asked.

The full lips curved at the corners. "You're not going anywhere until you give me a kiss."

I rolled my eyes, leaned toward his cheek when he turned his face so that I ended up leaning toward his mouth. So I moved around the side, but again, Freddie adjusted as though ready for a full-on liplock. So I met him in the middle; I rubbed noses with him.

"That's not a kiss," Freddie stated.

"It is for the Eskimos-"

"Oh shut up." As if to stop my mouth forcibly, he laid both hands against the sides of my face and pressed his lips firmly against mine. Involuntarily I shuddered.

"That, my dear, is a kiss," he whispered as he pulled away.

"Okay, I stand corrected," I breathed. "Shall I go now- or do you need me to stick around to walk back down?"

I saw Freddie's eyes blink slowly behind the glasses. "Kiss me again, darling, and I can fly."

My throat tightened, but I didn't hesitate this time. Once more, the stately Tavern on the Green was treated to a brief overt display of affection. Nothing really excessive, understand, but enough to make a man at the table nearest us actually wolf-whistle. Without another word, I pulled away from Freddie and clambered off the little stage. He had a show to do after all.

By the time I returned to our table, however, I found it had been cleared and bussed by mistake to make way for the next guests, who were already seated. But I was in no mood to make a scene. Corey tapped my shoulder and handed me my purse and our coats, for which I thanked him.

As for my shoes, they had been kicked further underneath the table by the new couple, completely out of my reach. And I would have preferred to go home barefoot than to ask them to reach under and give me my heels back. So I walked across the carpet, still shoeless, and found myself a nice vantage point from which to watch- one of the few left, actually. For the room seemed much more full than before, with some people just standing around in random places; the manager had started letting in the hordes it seemed.

And all eyes were on him.

Freddie kept sitting there wordlessly, his head bowed a little- which was driving some people up the wall. They cheered, clapped- and someone who recognized him even struck up a chant of "Rick! Rick! Rick!" which a few other people adopted for a few seconds, before dying down again. Finally he lifted his head, once more surveyed the glass menagerie before him. I couldn't see his eyes, but I knew the look in them by heart.

"Good evening, everybody," he drawled at last. "Feeling good?"

A tepid murmuring response. And yet, my heart raced. Something truly magical was about to happen.

Freddie cleared his throat. "Beg your pardon, dears. I said, ARE YOU FEELING GOOD TONIGHT?"

That was all it took. Everyone, young and old, men and women, yelled back, suddenly charged with excitement, "YEAHHHH!"

"All right!" he cried. "Let's go!"

Suddenly beaming, the drummer counted off, and Freddie launched right into a old Christmas song by his good friend Sharon.

"Welcome to my Christmas song," he crooned in the style of Elton, "I'd like to thank you for the year..."

I suddenly had flashbacks of Las Vegas, when I watched Freddie scoop every single person in the Circus Maximus up into the palm of his hand. So it was now- except back then, Freddie wore an utterly absurd disco-esque costume, while in this moment he looked as fashionable and as scrumptious as they came. I doubt there was ever a time before now when so much energy resonated within the Tavern. You could almost taste it.

"All right, last song," Freddie announced when "Step Into Christmas' came to an end. As soon as people let out a collective "Awww" he responded, "I know, very sad, but I can't stay long, so let's make this one count, eh?"

For a moment or two he started noodling around on the keys, filling the dead air with random tunes, before suddenly barking, "Corey! Get up here!"

My eyes widened, confused- but a second later here came the young man, bounding up to the stage, pulling off his bowtie and rolling up his button down sleeves as he ran.

Into the mike Freddie declared, "You'll love Corey, make sure you tip him. Tip everyone here in fact. These guys work too hard and it's Christmastime, come on."

Oh my gosh, I realized. He's making our waiter play guitar for him.

Corey grabbed a black and white electric guitar, which up till now had been sitting idle and untouched, off its stand. He strummed once, discovered it was already perfectly tuned. Giving Freddie a thumbs-up, Freddie nodded at the band, and they started the "last" song by another friend of his, Billy Squier's "Christmas is the Time to Say 'I Love You'."

I gotta say, Corey was good. He had the Billy Squier guitar solo down pat, adding a few of his own little tricks underneath. Freddie even looked back and grinned, clearly impressed.

"Everybody now!" Freddie cried, and led the final chorus in a singalong while my heart nearly burst with pride and love. I didn't know whether to smile or cry.

Freddie stood from the piano and bowed deeply to thunderous applause. "Thank you," he said, "Thank you very much, have a Merry Christmas."

People cheered so loudly and screamed so high it was a wonder the glass windows hadn't at the very least cracked. With a wink, he took the two steps down, and looked pointedly at me. It was time to skedaddle. With a hurried nod, I started his way.

And then some little woman in the very back had the bright idea to yell at the top of her lungs, "QUEEN!"

And the entire tone changed.

In seconds every single voice was lifted loudly in the chant of "We Want Queen! We Want Queen!" What little edge of upper class New York stuffiness existed before now, vanished. Everyone was united in a single wish. He looked like Freddie, he talked like Freddie, he moved like Freddie. And now, they wanted nothing less than for him to sing like Freddie.

They wanted Queen. They wanted it bad.

And Freddie, God bless him, was conflicted. So much so, he actually turned to look at me again, almost as if asking my permission. Both he and I knew what damage this could do- and none of it was temporary or insignificant. But I also knew what it was he wanted to do; I could see it all over his stance, his movements. He'd had a taste of performing, and so, now he had the itch. An itch that would have to be satisfied.

I would not dare to stand between him and his genius.

So with a big grin, I lifted my hands up, crossed the thumbs around each other, and fluttered my fingers. But Freddie didn't understand.

"What?" he mouthed silently- for there was no way I could have heard him over the crowd's chanting.

"Fly!" I mouthed back, too caught up in the moment to think. "Fly, my prince!"

Freddie paused a moment, just kind of stood there for a minute or two. And then his lips, very slowly, curved in that trademark smirk. And he turned again, and stepped back onto the stage.

He was moving differently now. Somehow Freddie's gait was more catlike, his hands twitching in excitement. My heart pounded as I watched him actually shuffle his arms out of the white jacket, lay it across the piano, then remove the glasses with a flourish. He took one sip of water from the glass he had brought with him, cracking his neck and shoulders before sitting back down.

I couldn't believe my eyes. He wasn't playing the role of Rick any longer. He was Freddie Mercury. The Freddie Mercury.

He leaned into the mike and said in his fabulously recognizable showman's tone. "Sorry, darlings, did you say something about Queen?"

Everyone screamed a garbled response.

"We want Queen, is that it?" he taunted further.

"Yeahhh!"

"I can't hear you."

"YYEEAAAAHHHHH!" I swear the windows and ceiling shook with the force of the sound.

Freddie let them settle down a moment, smiled, and said, "I'll think about it."

And he proceeded to noodle some more, driving everyone wild with waiting while he tripped his way through a little instrumental piece. At least, to most likely everyone else, it was noodling; but I knew from the very first chord what he was playing. Before I could properly react however, he jumped out of the first part of "Jealousy," and into the much more jazz-oriented "My Melancholy Blues"- a faster version, but it was the same song. And I wanted to die from all the feelings I had swimming around inside. I didn't know what on Earth he was trying to do, but it hurt. It hurt like hell. And I somehow loved and hated it at the same time.

And then, halfway through the instrumental version of the latter, he sustained an incidental A flat chord. I grinned like a fool, heart pounding so hard it nearly burst out of my rib cage.

He's not really going to sing that one, is he?

The next soft word to leave his lips confirmed all.

"...Can't..."

And everybody screamed. We all knew what was coming.

"A-ny-bo-dyyyyy.... find meeeeee.... Somebody to-ooo... LOOOOOOOVE?"

(I wish I could properly describe to you every single aspect, every sensation, every image, of the next five minutes as he played this song, of all things, but I know I would surely fall short. I was in such an emotional haze anyway, I doubt I could come anywhere close to accurate. So I have included a link to the 1981 Montreal performance of the song to at least give some idea of the power on display. I could never do him justice, no one can. I have to let him speak -and sing- for himself.)

https://youtu.be/aA2IRoPFIn0

Probably the most magical thing about that performance, was at the break, when every instrument cut out save the drums, and it was just Freddie and the audience. He was standing up at this point, hand clenching the cordless microphone so tight the thing almost snapped in two, and the entire room was his to command.

"Put your hands together, come on," he urged. People didn't immediately comply, so he popped, "To the beat, you f---ers! Come on! Yeah!"

Once we were all clapping, the drums steadily growing louder, he began, "Find. Me. Somebody to lo-ove, Find. Me. Somebody to lo-ove-" Then he held the microphone towards us, and we started singing the same thing. The entire building shook with sound, his voice and ours singing in unison. Such vitality. Such a master. We were putty in his hands.

I could only stand there and look at him, my whole body pulsating with the beat of my heart. And all I could think was how lucky, how unbelievably blessed I was to know him as more than the weird and wonderful showman these people were seeing now.

And then it happened.

It was the climax of the song, and the energy level was reaching a fever pitch. My ears pounded, everything seemed so unbelievably loud but I didn't care. I was way too high to pay any mind.

Back at the piano, Freddie threw back his head and, to everyone's surprise, made a play for the high note as heard in the studio recording. "Somebo-dy TOOO..."

He let the E flat float alone in the air a little while- and everyone cheered, anticipating the big finish. And oh, was there a big finish.

He took a deep breath, looked straight at me, and sang at the top of his lungs smack into the mike, "LO-OOVE!"

And suddenly there was an earth-shattering crash, a collective startled scream from the ladies in the audience- and a sudden sharp gust of freezing wind. But Freddie kept singing, the band kept playing, and the guests kept cheering. And only till the song was finally ending, and I found I was rubbing my bare arms vigorously against the cold did I realize what he had done.

People were still going absolutely mad even after he played the last note, and he and Corey all but ran off the stage, heading straight for me.

"Come on, let's get out of here while we still can," Freddie growled, grabbing my hand. "Which way, darling?"

Corey pointed- and we ran. As we went, we passed the manager, who looked like God Himself had forsaken him.

"You," he stammered, "y-you busted the windows-"

"Oh just charge it to Dr. Stuart Preus, darling, he'll be glad to oblige," he crooned. "Let's go, dear!"

Good grief, I finally marveled as we blew through the back kitchen door. That's the real reason he went when he did; he's too powerful for this century.

Sal here, dedicating this chapter to the memory of a legend, Freddie Mercury. May he rest in peace.