You're playing "Nostalgia" in a cafe in a dodge part of town. It's the coldest it's been all winter, and that fact seems to amplify how dark it is tonight. The cafe is filled with the usual: an old, greying man, reliving his own jazz memories, several middle aged women, commending themselves on being cultured and musically intellectual (a direct result of listening to live jazz), and elderly man escaping the frigid night and possibly a vacant lonely house; a reminder of the family that left him. And me. Your Girlfriend (I feel like that should be capitalized). Devotedly attending another musical event at which the actual level of your musical prowess will escape me. All I'm aware of is that the music you make is beautiful, and inspires me. And that I love you (seemingly unconditionally).
That, and the look on your face when you're playing is the same one you have when we make love. It's a totally new and unexplored level of jealousy when your envy is directed at a drum set.
Regardless, this cafe, surrounded by an otherwise dark and unconcerned world lit only by headlights bouncing off ice, is my bright and warm fixed point in the universe; a warm place of light pulsating with the sound of jazz, and kept in tempo by the steady rhythm of the drummer whom I love.
That, and the look on your face when you're playing is the same one you have when we make love. It's a totally new and unexplored level of jealousy when your envy is directed at a drum set.
Regardless, this cafe, surrounded by an otherwise dark and unconcerned world lit only by headlights bouncing off ice, is my bright and warm fixed point in the universe; a warm place of light pulsating with the sound of jazz, and kept in tempo by the steady rhythm of the drummer whom I love.
No comments:
Post a Comment