The saxaphone hangs like a cross around his neck. He stands onstage, touching its buttons. He lifts it and looks into its bell. He whispers something into it, something private. I wish that I could find something private to say to him. I'm always leaning into his ear with nothing in my mouth.
I am only drinking water. I wonder what the charge will be - for water and watching this musician touch his instrument. This musician. I hope that he'll begin to play soon. I hope that he'll blow loudly enough to excuse me from my silence, some kind of screaming improvisation that doesn't mean anything. Blabbers. I imagine myself whispering blabbers into his ear, him nodding, nodding, turning to look at my face.
He plays C, F7, G7, a blues. The drummer shakes his snare. I eye down the waiter and order a drink. A real drink that costs money.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment