Playing drums in the house band at Lou’s BBQ was a long shot from his days playing Carnegie Hall, but it wasn’t like they ever sent him home with enough food that he’d be eating good for the week. He may never play in an orchestra again, but at least he got to make a modest living doing what he loved best.
Despite the fact it was after midnight, the night was still young for Sonny. It was tradition since his orchestra days that he’d celebrate a successful evening by unwinding with a glass of scotch and one of his favorite records. The descending saxophone melody of John Coltrane’s Giant Steps was stuck in his ear his entire walk home, and he was certain he wasn’t going to get a good night’s rest until he put that record on.
There was one last barrier between Sonny and his night cap, and as he fished his keys out of his pockets, he couldn’t help but notice his new neighbor sitting outside their own apartment. Judging by their makeup stained cheeks, they’d been locked out for a while, at least he assumed. Of course the building super, Ray, has a master key, but you’d have a better chance spotting big foot than catching him being useful.
“Rough night?” Sonny asked though the answer was clearly written on their face. “I’m going to be up for a bit if you want to get out of the hallway. It’s going to be real hard to enjoy my midnight mac and cheese knowing you’re crying on the other side of the door.”
“I got enough to share,” he added.
well-to-do and charming notting hill, with its pastel mansions and 90s romcom streets, was home to anais and ángel. they’d bustled through the portobello market, ice cream and laughter as they walked to saint stephen’s gardens. the residents scattered among the neat gardens waved polite hellos, big smiles for the mother and son that’d endeared them during the stay at the gardens. they’d wander across the flat’s second floor to tuck shopping bags away: coach, yves saint laurent, nike, and what-have-you. as anais sat comfortable on the terrace with a dinner, ángel pitter-pattered up the stairs and ran across the reception room in brand new sneakers.
it’d been the two of them, just them, as long as anais could remember. after they left notting hill for the states, ángel grew close to selah and nayeli. ángel grew into a boisterous, charming boy --- no longer clutching at the long, silky dresses worn by mummy as the two wandered through a new city. weak for the big brown eyes, anais let the boy stay the night with nayeli. at the door, the mothers exchanged an overnight bag and advice: make sure he flosses and have a night on the town !
so, anais sat at a pub and nursed loneliness. oh, and stella artois. though, since she became a mother, the tolerance took a steep decline. somewhere along the night in a hazy stupor, she’d lost the set of keys for a new car and the new flat ( or apartment ) so she sat against the door with a coach tote over mostly-bare thighs. somewhere along the night, she cried because: ángel grew up, i can’t believe i lost the keys, i miss notting hill. around a quarter to midnight, she’d stopped crying. for now.
‘ huh ? ’ anais looked up, watery red eyes, and nodded when she’d considered the familiar man with a painstaking focus. they’d passed by each other in the walkways, though never spoken. ‘ i lost my keys, ’ she confessed, knuckles swept across stained cheeks to make sure she didn’t look absurdly stupid. a smile, not reaching the eyes, quivered with the effort it’d taken to look composed. though, anais couldn’t help the cheery laugh brought out by the offer of mac and cheese.
‘ really ? ’ a childishly hopeful lilt accented the response.
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