The club
‘Nothing will happen’ was like a mosquito’s buzz in his head, as he sat next to her in that airless jazz club.
“It’s a greenhouse in here,” he said into her ear.
She nodded.
Marcus Strickland’s sax was like a sad train whistle in the distance, Charles Haynes’ beats and brushes were weaved with Keyon Harrold’s horn by Mitch Henry’s piano.
Two scotches numbed his fatigue.
Her long fingers drummed her left knee.
The quintet expanded its sound, shrouded by groove. He turned and glimpsed at her. She smiled back.
“Do you want to leave?” she asked
“No, I got to get some air; there’s only 30 minutes to go,” he said.
He went out into the dank cold. His hands snuck into his jacket like foetal marsupials.
He took in a deep breath. He felt the air chill his lungs. A chorus of coughing followed his thoughts. He tried to ease it with a gulp of his scotch.
The gig ended, and the lights exposed a white audience.
