For as long as I could remember I had been alone. My parents had been zoologists, dedicated to study of animal behavior. The both of them were workaholics, always writing new theses or petitioning for grants to continue their research. After each paper was complete, two more would be in the works, their field calling on them more as their fame increased. Because of their dedication, I had come last on more than one occasion; my young self being left at home more frequently as I became self-sufficient. By the time I was a teenager I might see my parents once or twice a week depending on their schedules, and I was well used to it. But as a child, the silence of my home had been unbearable for me, slow and torturous without any signs of life. I had learned early on that music could fill that silence and I would sit in front of the radio for hours, laying on the floor and listening to the huge speakers that took up half a wall in our living room.

I was nineteen and just finishing my first year of nursing school when both of my parents suddenly died in a car crash. Without warning I had become more alone than ever before. There were no relatives to comfort me and at the time I'd had no close friends I could tell my problems to. I had no one and nothing left but an empty brownstone that I could no longer stand to live in. I sold the house and moved to my current apartment, adopting Louie not too long after. But I was miserable until I found music again. Instead of crippling pain, I could ease my emotions and feel them portrayed in sounds and words. The things that I couldn't say were all wrapped up in a nice package of wonderful that only took 3 minutes to listen to.

I would play one song after another, this one making me happy, the next bringing me to the depths of despondency. But each one healed me, built me back up again. My tastes became eclectic and I listened to whatever spoke to me, no matter if it was classic rock or punk, hip-hop or pop. I had no favorite genre; instead gravitated toward serene or calming sounds and for my other moods loud punk, alternative ballads, or some mainstream rap. Whatever matched those needs was what went on my iPod and when Pandora came out, it became my best friend. I was no music aficionado, but I loved it with all my heart and jazz held a special place within me. The haunting melodies and painful, passionate lyrics resonated with me on a deep level and the saxophone had to be my favorite instrument to listen to.

Smooth jazz had fallen out of mainstream music but I loved it more because it wasn’t popular. The only thing about wanting something that people no longer listened to is that you had to pay for it. Easy listening clubs could be found throughout New York, but most jazz clubs had a pretty hefty cover charge. My pay wasn’t anything to sneeze at, but in an expensive place like New York, every little bit saved helped. So when I found Giovanni’s, it felt like a miracle.

The outwardly small and cheap looking building had drawn in a tired me on my way home from work, mostly because I had been sure I would be able to get OK food for almost nothing. But seeing the expansive bar and clean overall setting of the place had made it worth staying. Giovanni’s didn’t have the best cuisine in the world; their spaghetti and meatballs were only just palatable; what had really sold me had definitely been the band and the mix of smooth jazz and R&B they played. This lounge had almost become a second home to me, from the relaxed atmosphere to the fact that I could afford to come here as much as I wanted.

Tonight I was back at the jazz club again and I knew it was becoming the worst kind of habit. I was coming here at least twice a week, and I would’ve been here even more if work had allowed. I knew not to pause at the bar because most of the guys there were looking for company or looking to get piss drunk. Since I wasn’t looking for either, I stayed out of their way and gravitated towards the tables nearest to the huge stage that took up the whole back wall of the club. The left side had better service and the sloping roof rose on this side, increasing the acoustics, so this was where I usually sat. The low lighting that was almost nonexistent calmed me, helped me get in the mood to listen with my whole body. My favorite table was empty and as I sat, I really knew I was coming here too often. Within seconds a familiar waiter came over and placed a drink on my table with a smile.

‘Your raspberry tea, Noelle. I’ll have your spaghetti right out for you.’

Embarrassing, he knows my name! Just what kind of boring life was I living? I gave him a big smile while I inwardly berated myself for being so damn predictable. After I added some sugar to my tea and gave it a few blows over the top, I took a few cautious sips. Not too hot and the sweetness was just right. Screw being predictable, my taste was exquisite. I laughed aloud to myself, glad that the club was almost empty so no one could see me acting crazy. In fact, the place is always kind of empty, and today just a few older couples are spread throughout the room. There’s a lone guy over in one of the far tables but I can’t see him that well, the only thing alerting me to his presence is the shock of blonde hair on his head. He’s even closer to the stage than I am and seems to be deep in thought. Drinking more tea, I thought about my new, or old depending on which of my friends you talked to, spot.

When the waiter returned to my table with the spaghetti, I gave him another smile and took a few bites. The noodles were overcooked and the sauce was too chunky with tomatoes, but it was only costing me five dollars and I was hungry. Halfway through my food, I got excited as the band started to come up on stage. It looked like it would only be the pianist and the drummer. I was a bit disappointed, mostly because the older man who played the saxophone usually held most of my interest. There was something special about people who played their instruments with love; the music reflected it. The old man definitely had passion in spades and had made the music come to life when he played. Already I knew I would miss his presence.

With a short pause, the pianist started, lightly pressing the keys to play a low, haunting melody that I knew. It’s Maxwell’s version of ‘This Woman’s Work’ and it’s one of my favorites. The song plays out with the last notes lingering in the air and I can feel my mood start to improve, a weight I didn’t know was there lifting from me. I’m so focused inward, my eyes closed, that I don’t see the new person who gets on stage, but I hear the piano start up again. This time it’s different though and the notes resonate within me until I have to know who’s playing. Opening my eyes, I see the man from the table has now gotten onstage and is pounding out Yiruma’s ‘Love Me’ flawlessly.

 I’m instantly swept up in his music and the way he plays. I feel like every time I’ve heard this song before has been a cheap imitation of what the guy on stage is doing to it now. Seeing him hit each key, his fingers moving fluidly, his eyes squeezing shut on the high notes has me right there in the music with him. My body is unconsciously swaying to the beat, moving with him as his hands fly around on the keys, bending and grooving to the sweet melody he’s making. Before I realize it, I’m lost in the music, lost in him, my eyes closing and all sense of time leaving me.

Abruptly the music stops and I look around me, stunned out of my stupor. I see the musicians leaving the stage, and I realize the set is over. As the piano player closes the lid on the keys and leaves the stage, I’m staring like there’s no tomorrow. Inside my head I’m willing him to notice me, for him to see that he has affected like I haven’t been in…ever. But he doesn’t look up and after a few seconds I sit back and notice that I was practically across the table. Embarrassed, I take a sip of my tea and grimace when I taste that it’s ice cold. I look down at my watch and realize I’ve been sitting here for almost three hours. I’m muttering to myself about the lost time when I see the piano player leave his table and walk to the bar.

 As he saunters through the club, I’m cursing the low lighting that’s seriously impeding my vision. The paleness of his skin makes him stand out in a room full of brown people, his blonde hair falling messily across his forehead. From what I can guess he’s short, only about 5’9 or 5’10 and wearing a black and white t-shirt that’s tight enough that I can see the prominent muscles of his arms. Dark and fitted jeans hug his lower body like a second skin and on his feet are black boots that have an inch heel. When he makes it to the bar, the lighting is a little better and as I look, I try not to crane my neck in too obvious way. I’m totally being a creeper, but I need to know who this magician is. He talks to the bartender and as he moves into the light I finally get a clear view of him. Oh. My. God. Jonghyun?

He stands by the bar, ordering a drink and looks around the club as he sips on his water. My heart beat picks up the pace when I see his face, that strong jaw and almond eyes that are clear markers of his ancestry despite his hair color. His hands are large around his cup and his lips are small and thin as they take a drink. His wrists and hands are filled with rings and bracelets, and the sight of them makes my heart pound. The faintest hint of shadow is around his upper lip and chin; glasses are tucked inside his shirt. And all I can think is that he is perfection personified. My inspection hasn’t taken more than a few seconds, but before I can look away he catches me staring. Heat fills up my face and I turn around quickly, cursing quietly.

My heart’s going at break neck speeds and I’m feeling all kinds of flustered. I’ve never had this kind of reaction before and I’m tempted to look at him again, the feeling of need overwhelming any embarrassment. I cautiously turn my head, and there he is, his eyes boring into mine. My mind is screaming look away, but I’m caught in his gaze and I can’t break free. My lips part slightly, my breathing is erratic and I’m having fantasies about what I want to do with those lips of his when he turns away suddenly, and resumes talking to the bartender. Released from my stupor, I’m stunned by my actions and have to consciously close my mouth. Oh God, what am I doing? I can’t believe just looking at him had me panting like a dog in heat. I shake my head slightly, trying to erase the image of his eyes on me when a waiter comes up to my table.

“Compliments of the gentleman at the bar miss.” Christ, now I’m freaking!

“Do you know who sent it?” I ask the waiter in a quiet voice. Please be Jonghyun, please be Jonghyun.

“No I’m sorry, another waiter told me to bring it to you.”

“Oh, well thanks anyway.”

He smiles at me and then walks away. My mind starts going a mile a minute because the possibilities of this situation are making me feel as if, for once, I’m in my own fairytale.  

I take another glance at my phone, the glaring numbers reading out that the time is late. I don’t like walking home this late but I would have to walk back into the main area of downtown to catch a taxi. The thought of the trip makes me want to stay right in my seat and not move. Not to mention that I want to give whoever sent me the drink time to come over to my table. It’s not that I haven’t had drinks ordered for me before, but never in this place. And the same people are here like usual, the only difference is Jonghyun. Could he have done it? Would he even recognize me out of my scrubs and the Bugs Bunny jacket I’d been wearing when we’d first met? I’m hoping so, to the point where I wait another ten minutes at the table, pretending to scroll through already read emails. But finally I don’t want to wait anymore and I gather my things quickly, throwing more than enough money to cover my bill and the undrunk wine. Slipping on my thin black pea coat, I leave Giovanni’s and head for the next block that will take me to downtown. I’m beyond disappointed and I can’t help thinking that for people like me, fairytales just don’t exist.

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