[ WP ] You have a glaring talent in something you hate .

I hate this job. 
 
 I hate this dingy, dimly lit room. I hate the bar and its constant clank of glass on wood. I hate the regular crowd that shows up every Saturday night like clockwork. 
 
 My fingers finish striking the keys and some crazy old drunk stumbles on to the bench next to me. 
 
 “ SONNY! ” he bellows in my ear. “ CAN YOU PLAY THIS SONG FROM WHEN I WAS A KID? ” Then he proceeds to try and sing the tune and it is a drunken disaster. 
 
 I catch the bartenders eye from across the bar and he sees the distress in my face. He should know. It matches his. He helps the guy off and has him take a seat near the door. I start up my next song so I do n't have to hear his babbling any more. There is that awful clink of glass on wood but it's okay, it's just the bartender slipping me another drink. Half in the bag is the only way we can get through a shift. 
 
 The “ bachelors ” pop in around eleven. Paul is never going to be anything other than what he is, and his best friend David is a lifer in the navy. David is madly in love with his best friend and its baffling and pathetic that Paul does n't see it. Or maybe he does, just does n't want to hurt the guy's feelings. Fuck if I know. I play another song. My fingers dance over the keys like they're weaving a magic spell. 
 
 The stockbrokers file in around eleven thirty. They're loud and awful. Sadie, the waitress, freezes up when they call her over. Poor kid is just trying to get through college and every goddamn night she has to deal with these assholes and their incessant comments and casual ass grabs. The manager looks on and does nothing because hey, he's a lazy sad sack. He flashes his shit eating grin over to me because he knows the only reason anyone is at his dive is because I happen to play really, really well. 
 
 I hate this bar. I hate singing into this microphone that smells like stale beer. I hate the shitty tips and the constant “ You're too good for here! ” from the customers. I want to use these hands to rock my baby daughter to sleep, or cup my wife's face while I kiss her and tell her how beautiful she is. I want to use them to make a dresser, or skin a kill, ANYTHING but what they're good at. What they're so, SO PAINFULLY good at. 
 
 I fucking hate the piano, man.
