Today, I watched the hustle and bustle of preparations for Miss Law School. Young people always put everything off until the last minute — two weeks for a dance? But, surprisingly, they manage to get everything done.
I look at their movements and see a smoky 1980s pub. Jazz, men in impeccable suits, women whose dresses whispered with every step. My place is the far end of the bar. Rudolf, our regular bartender, poured drinks and sold secrets. He knew more about everyone in that room than a detective.
Thanks to him, I knew who was in love and who was a criminal. It's a pity that modern bars have lost this magic of confession. Now all I can do is watch these diligent students. They are trying so hard to embellish their celebration, to add at least a drop of the magic that used to be as natural to us as the air we breathe.
I look at them and think: maybe magic isn't jazz or dresses, but this unstoppable desire of people to add a little colour to their lives.
<Watching the shadows of the 1980s dance in the eyes of 2026.>
