A Recital in the name of the moment.

She is a supermodel, or at least people always ask her if she is one. No, she just hangs out with her model friend, who happens to be tall too. What is it about being a tall woman? People always assume you're either an athlete or a model, or just corn-fed. She wonders.

She doesn't look corn-fed though. Maybe a little heartbroken, or just sick of carrying the weight of the truth. Beautiful brown skin. A short black dress, with the sides cut out. And high heels. Her very presence is powerful, impossible to ignore. Her best friend, tall too, struts around the lobby of this 5 star hotel like a catwalk, on the arm of the boyfriend she has come into town to visit. Little does she know, she is one of many.

Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't care. How are people supposed to have one and only these days with all the travel, the technology and the time flying by in the fashion that it does, anyway? Doesn't the strongest connection between two people always prevail? So, what's the point of monogamy? That's what the model friend tells herself.

The tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out feels differently though as she spots the piano, her saving grace tonight, silently sitting in the middle of this dimly lit, moody lobby. As the model friend and the rich boyfriend glide outside to smoke cigarettes and stare into each other's eyes, she requests that the concierge print off a copy of a piece of music she mastered in the sixth grade, hoping that playing it now, in a swanky Beverly Hills hotel will bring her the same joy it did when she played it for a cafeteria full of proud parents at age 12.

The concierge, a young, handsome, shy, and overworked man seems to gladly fulfill her request and immediately appears from around the corner with the requested Requiem in hand.

She begins to play. The lobby is full of snobby socialites, ordering their bottles of wine and slurping their gourmet pastas, reminiscing about dinners past at other fancy establishments. The bartender madly shakes, stirs and pours drinks. And the concierge examines light fixtures and furniture to make sure everything stays exactly in it's place. The lounge music blares behind her, and her fingers are nowhere near as nimble as they were 10 years ago. But she remembers the feeling, the freedom and the fearlessness of that time, the time when she was young, careless, and full of endlessly motivating, unfulfilled dreams and she continues to play.

Maybe she's playing for the death of the past. The death of a romance. The death of childhood. The death of naivete, and the birth of acceptance. Acceptance of what is. Maybe she's a few steps ahead of her model friend who sits outside, unaware of the piano performance, staring into the eternity of her lover's eyes.

All of a sudden, the bartender can not shake another drink. He politely excuses himself from his thirsty patrons and carries a half full tray of drinks into the kitchen. "Does anyone know what is with this wench who has been attempting to teach herself piano for the past two hours?? She clearly finds it necessary to express her heartbreak to the entire world!!!"

She continues to play. Although her song isn't as melodious as an audience might hope, her sentiments are actively projected throughout the lobby and maybe the discord is disquieting not because of the lack of quality of her performance, but because she actually has a truth to share. A truth that we all share. As humans. The power of the moment.

The concierge rolls his eyes into the back of his head and makes a disgusted face as he cranks the volume of the lounge music in an attempt to drown out her crescendo that matches the crescendo of the thoughts racing through his head. His desire to be anywhere, but here. The song has brought his feelings of frustration and angst right where they belong. To the moment. Right where he can deal with them.

The socialites begin to rustle like uncomfortable fallen autumn leaves, and the comparisons of the sophistication of their food palettes turn to nothing but silent swirling wine glasses and wandering, avoiding eyes. Glances at watches and searching for room keys. Anything to escape the uncomfortable thoughts that arise as the tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out fearlessly wanders her way through the completion of the story of this song.

And the bartender exhales as he exclaims, "Last call!" and promises himself that he will no longer avoid the inner demons that are keeping him from being everything in life he can be.

The only two that can't hear the music are the model and her rich boyfriend. The man of many women. They sit outside, solidifying one another in each other's souls for eternity. Maybe only to meet again in another lifetime, but ensuring that they will carry the thought of one another with each other forever and always. Especially at the sound of a Requiem, in a hotel lobby, somewhere down the line.