The Jazz Player

The streetlamp flickers low over cobblestones still glistening from an earlier rain.

She appears...silhouetted in satin and moonlight, a beautiful ghostly apparition floating in with the mist...

Purposeful, rhythmic, her heels click upon the pavement - each step a note in her own silent composition.

In movements of slow deliberate steps - she nears him...same time every Friday night, exactly at half past eight...never late, neither is he.

They are gentle waves awaiting the light breaking upon streams of patient flowing water, they play the game of cat and mouse...

Hoping...knowing that although he pretends to not see her, she is the water...and inside this place, his light silently seeks her

He knows every curve and contour of her form, for when she sashays by, the tempo of his rhythm dips slow, caressing and electrifying the air---

Yet he plays such heartachingly beautiful music, melancholy dripping from his sad honeyed lips.

Jazz music echoes smoothly, the lone player stands silhouetted in the doorway of the smoky 1920's speakeasy, his music drifting out into the night.

The bar is dimly lit, sophisticated patrons in tasteful flapper dresses and dapper suits float everywhere, enjoying cocktails.

A long, gloved hand brushes against her cheek as she glides past, hips swaying with the languid grace of a slow-burning torch song. Her perfume...jasmine and smoke...trails behind her like a whispered secret.

She does not rush...Her movements, velvet-smooth, tailored to be seen, not hurried.

Her cocktail is ordered, shaken, not stirred...007 themed to break lonely hearts.

Every Friday, he leans against the doorframe, lost in his melody, fingers curling around the neck of his sax like a lover known too well. Never lifting his gaze. Still, she passes by, once again, with a half-smile that hints she’s seducing the night itself.

Dare we enter the Speakeasy to see inside. Or shall we follow her, see where those heels lead when the music fades...

Solitary, lone...still the player stands silhouetted in the doorway, his music drifting out into the night. The bar is dimly lit, with patrons enjoying cocktails as smoke swirls, enveloping, like a cocoon.

Like Deja vu....

In a scene rendered high contrast black and white, reminiscent of classic film noir, evoking Gordon Willis and Gregg Toland...a touch of art deco elegance...magical.

He never looks up...She leaves the way she came, in a wisp of smoke.

Light breaks the water of her thoughts, tumultuous and torrential as are her nightmares.

Friday rolls around again. The Jazz player is no more. No one remembers him...no one seems real in this place.

Maybe you were never here.

Her head down in despair, she sees his reflection in the pool of rainwater.

Looking upwards, an outstretched hand under the streetlamp, reaching for hers.

A bright light shining across the echo of disappointment, breaking the stillness of the water wonderfully.

She is home.

High contrast black and white---classic film noir...art deco elegance paints the scene in nostalgia as she remembers.

Light breaks...watery tears bid goodbye...

Rest now!