￼ She possessed a haunting, lilting voice. Hard to age by ear or eye, I watched as she took centre stage in every aspect of its meaning. The other singers became as statues, their faces unobserved, voices unnecessary, the lavish set as nothing other than a backdrop to her. For me, it was the diva’s […]
￼ Wind in the meadow Tickles the lively crickets Laughing violins
￼ There's jazz playing. I hate jazz. My face gives me away. "Not a jazz fan, huh?" "No." He ignores my abrupt reply. "It's more than music, man, it's a feelin'". "I'm not feeling it." "Coz yer eyes are open, man. Close 'em. S'like love." I do. He's right. It is.
A slide guitar slit through the coffee shop like a catamaran the sea. I imagined the chords gently easing aside the customers, the grinding granules, the general hullabaloo with the same simple efficiency of a gravedigger the cemetery's ochre soil. Apt, as it always was my favourite place to haunt.
She leant over the piano like a soldier his first clean bed after years of war. Her eyes closed, fingers ran over the spruce, lips curled into a gentle memory. And I loved her more than ever as I signed I understood. She didn't see me just smiled some more.
She liked talking, me, headphones. Perfect.
￼ The jukebox clicked over: Bowie, Let’s Dance. The tips of her long, auburn hair twitched, then shuddered, then shook. Her head swayed as her arms loosed themselves from her sides. Freedom. She was free. Lost and found. I watched her red shoes, a scarlet blur, and smiled. She deserved it.