Sitting in the back booth, the smell of coffee rolling through the place.
I’ve been here for a while. In the silence.
The jukebox is playing softly, the piano has been drinking, not me.
Do they have jukeboxes anymore? Is this a dream?
Suddenly a figure appears. Haunted, hands bloody. Checking its watch.
“Times short.”
Then he’s gone.
I hear a sound at the bar, the barman has a face I recognise though I can’t quite place. Kind of like looking in the mirror. He is laying a whisky down on the old horseshoe-shaped bar. The wood worn and faded.
“Here’s to the grey” he says, and takes a drink.
I lift my glass and take a sip.
11 a.m. I think.
Feels like time stopped a while ago.
The sun is creeping in through the windows, casting shadows across the bar.
No one else here but her. Talking to some guy. He’s interested but she is not.
I can overhear their conversation.
He’s telling her he’s got a Roller outside, a good pension lined up, and all his own teeth. They could be eating lunch at the club in an hour. She takes a drag on her cigarette and lets the smoke drift out.
Her blonde hair in a bob, blue dress unmissable in the grey.
She tells him to give her regards to Muff and Uncle Skip.
She sits at my table. She’s still got that cigarette. No words spoken, just a look of mischief in her eyes.
Have I seen her on the big screen before?
I know her. I have seen her everyday for 20 years.
I offer her an ashtray and tell her, “Take my advice — run away.” She smiles, sips her drink.
She brings a box up onto the table and she’s chuckling at my CD collection until she gets to John Lee Hooker.
“I’m in the mood,” she says.
For love. For life.
She sparks a match.
She stands up and offers her hand. Her beauty, her smile, her bluey-green eyes strike me.
“I want to show you something.” she offers.
I finish my drink. Stand and take her hand. We walk across the old wooden floor.
The bartender is drying glasses, he nods as we walk by.
The rain fell steady that night. He opened the window and could feel the moisture in the air. He turned the lights down low and listened as nonfiction drifted out from the speakers.
The acoustic guitar, bass and harmonica all drifting in together.
He put down his phone and sat on the floor at the side of the bed, looking up through the big bay window at the grey sky and rain tapping on the window.
He loved the rain.
Was just as well living around here because you certainly got plenty of it.
He found it comforting. Reassuring.
Better than melting beneath a 30 degree sun. He wasn’t made for that.
The piano started up in the chorus, notes dancing around the vocal.
He picked up his acoustic and played along with the record listening to Chris Robinson’s soulful tones.
His head back against the bed. He just breathed.
Sometimes living wasn’t easy. But small moments made it worthwhile.
Like hearing Jimi Hendrix for the first time.
Or a Joe Perry guitar solo.
Or hearing ‘talking about a revolution’ for the first time.
He tapped his foot along to the beat. He opened his eyes and saw a bus rolling up the street.
Soon there would be work to do. Responsibilities to meet.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 