Sonya Côté

My piano player Jordan is one of the most loving people I know and sometimes his huge heart makes him agree to accept some less than desirable gigs. He’s booked a gig for us to play a midday show in a retirement home.
 
We are led with our equipment to the cafeteria. Metal chairs painfully squeal when moved across the pockmarked 1960’s linoleum floor. The mirrored wall at the back will surely echo our every high note. It smells of cleaning fluid, mold and burnt bacon.
 
For the first few songs, I merely go through the motions of singing. I resist the urge to check the clock between every chorus. A few seniors are dancing. A well-dressed couple gets up and takes over the dance floor. His trousers are pressed down the seam, his Oxfords polished to a high shine, and he wears a snappy patterned vest and matching tie...