Frank Sinatra’s got this unique spell in his voice. I have been to every nook and cranny the vocal jazz genre has to offer but seldom compares to the way he croons through The World We Knew. It’s got a build up right at the start, a theme fit for a climax and an underlying hope that the very birth of something, deserves a grand crescendo of it’s own. Intriguing.
I stare at a daunting cursor as it blinks on the sheet-white screen before me. A story missing a fitting conclusion, held up somewhere in the middle, or has it even started?
Frank Sinatra offers me a welcome reprieve through the tangled mess of earphones, sitting haphazardly in my ear. One things for sure; this story won’t see an end tonight so I think to give the entire ordeal a rest for now and close my eyes, diving off into the pitch black.
When I rise again, it’s to the scent of smoke and vices, thick and heady. The red glare of the overhead bulb digs into my disorientation as I take in the cold table I was slumped on, not too long ago.
A few moments pass and it’s safe to assume that I have taken residence in some sort of club. A while later, it dawns on me with a bit more coherence. The cuffs of my shirt are loosened and I tug the discarded suit jacket at my side closer, running my hand along the front. It’s a vintage, mahogany and double breasted in it’s visage — a striking ensemble.
The Ice swirls about thrice, clinking the sides of a whiskey-laced glass and there’s a definite deduction before there’s a fourth: I am somewhere in the Mid – 20th Century.
A young black lady waltzes her way through an Ella Fitzgerald classic up ahead, the auburn of her evening gown shimmering under golden spotlights. I find myself pulled in and singing along; a force of habit.
My fingers clutch a little tighter, rivulets sliding down the warm crystal glass easing the tension set in my shoulders.
Logically, my mind should be running anxious laps but I find my current circumstances to be quite pleasant, instead.
A mumbled curse reaches my ear, and I look to where a young gentleman sits in a condition no less pitiful than mine, a table away. And to think I would be taking the runners up prize for that particular title.
Eyes down, a straight line for a mouth and darkness below striking pale eyes give away his lack of sleep and perhaps the cause for his muted distress. I watch him scribble in a short notebook, the scratch of lead magnified. Scratch, repeat, scratch, a long tear from harshly striking out a sentence, repeat.
He’s up against the greatest tempest known to man; finding the right words.
Very few have ever passed this particular storm and I nod lightly in understanding.
I have a feeling I’ll be here for a while longer so I do what I do best – relax. Good music, good wine and a reality with blurred edges is the ideal form of life after all, it’d be a pity if I don’t soak it in well.
I blink away the mist settled under my lenses. It is the alcohol acting up, I surmise. Feeling oddly shaken and bold, I gather my meager belongings and plan to grace the troubled gentleman with my presence. Before I reach the end of that conviction, I'm knocking down his table.“You seem a bit worse for wear.”
He startles at my voice, pencil scratching the edges and running of the square page. “Oh, this.” The man gets out, considers and then sighs. “I write, and need an end for this novel of mine but I - ,” can’t seem to find it. The part that goes unsaid. I nod again, hope it conveys that the sentiment is not uncommon and mutually shared.
“Tough luck getting to the endings, you could say that again.”
The man gives me a peculiar look, brows drawing in. He tilts his head in acquiescence to me occupying his space and time. “I seem to not know where to begin, so finding an end is a long ways in my list of troubles.” I say, as a conversation starter, not a good one I realize. This odd man seems to share my stunted abilities when it comes to social graces.
“Have you tried letting go?” He murmurs, distracted and off-kilter. Has the lady stopped singing? The quiet red-glow presses me into a chamber of suffocation. I take a breath and answer him in the next.
“You hold on too tightly, kae.” His voice is light and his gaze holds a tinge of ancient foreboding, a self-centered air which would look like pride on anyone else. He scritches circles at one corner, lead on lead, over and over. “Let go.”
“And how do you suppose I do that?’ I scoff, already retreating back on a failed attempt at indulgence.
“It can’t hurt to try.” The gentleman sounds too sure for someone facing a tempest of his own. I still turn over the sentence in my head. It makes sense, in a way. I grab my glass again, the tang of the spirited-burn taking the edge off me, again. There have been a lot of agains, I note.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt-“
A crash from my left cuts me off. The high pitched screams tear down my ears as the glass in my hand digs into my fingers. The singer from before tugs her gown in my periphery and scurries between the abandoned piano and thrown cello.
There seems to be a blast, the ringing in my ears keeps me rooted in place. The smoke still lingers; now something deadly instead of calming. The odd man sits primly surrounded by it, pencil still in hand. He continues noting down in hurried patches.
I move to grab his hand and haul out of here but my hand presses down against the whiskey laced sin still clutched in it. His mouth moves around words, garbled as they reach me. I squint through the newly-rising dust and the distant red to make them out.
“Oh, it always hurts. Terribly so.”
The red in my eyes is deep and dark. Blood, my mind supplies.
The man swirls in my vision, the smoke getting to him and I reach my hand out to grasp at his arm, ask after him. My hands meet cool metal and I snap the laptop shut, jerking awake. My red-rimmed eyes glance at the offending object, the clock beside it reads a red, glowing 4.32 am, an hour and some since I dozed off.
It always hurts, I whisper, lips ghosting around the words, afraid to touch.“It always hurts.”
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