When I read about the weekly Poetry Night in one of the lost flyers I picked-up on the wet pavement, I thought about the jazz-like microphones and the sultry voices of the delicate poets with their sensual and forgotten words, dripping out of their burned lips. I said I would try to catch some of their remains, to keep them in my lungs and breathe them just there.
I sit in the corner where the shadows live. I sip on my whiskey, after finishing my cup of black coffee, waiting with solemnity for the next participant. But the host says there will be a short acoustic performance before the next poet. After some terrible microphone tests and excuses, a figure emerges from the backstage, holding a guitar. I think I broke the glass I was holding.
Your eyes roam around the cafe until they rest in the space I hide, as if you can see me through the dark; as if you have known all along I would be here tonight. There are no questions in your eyes; no doubts, either. As if you already know that I know you work here and I have used the flyer as an excuse to see you again.
You prop the guitar on your thigh and test the strings. You draw the curious crowd towards you as you cough to get their attention. “I’m going to tell you this story because it matters to me,” you say. “Because, after all, why would you be here?” You strum the taut strings and the melody flows in the area. Everybody pushes their ears towards you, listening with interest and without expectations.
Before I can even get out of the place, you begin to tell the story with your wounded voice. And, somehow, it sounds familiar to me.
WORD COUNT: 302
Thank you for reading this story. If you want to talk about random things with me, do not hesitate to reach me through my “Contact” page. All the best love, my dear.