The cool air of the summer night made its way through the open window, twisting the strings on the blinds, as it passed by. The noted patterns of the city lights metered out a certain rhythm, a certain melancholy, welling up from its location planted somewhere deep within its roots. He turned to notice the lights. The expression on his face held for just a few more seconds, before diffusing and blowing away with the fleeting sentiment accompanying it.
The nearest light brought shadow to the features of his face as it fell across the dark hue of his skin.
He pulled and tugged at his necktie several more times before leaving it to hang loosely below his collar.
Turning his attention back to the room, he looked at a recently vacated table to his left. Being right with the decision didn’t matter anymore than what was happening out in the city tonight.
Colored in grey tones, the long tail ash of the cigarette hung over the lip of the ash tray. The smoke curled it’s way upward, drifting into the ether, fading into the background. He lifted the saxophone to his lips and inhaled. The piano keys and cymbals seasoned the stock of the composition. The saxophone’s lead vocals yearned for a film noir in shades of melancholy and blue note while telling the story of a lost love.
A sad story, not unlike many heard before.
Two, who had been inseparable,
Were now resigned to separate paths.
But the heart still wants what the heart still wants.
Yet what was done is done and nuthin’ is ever gonna change that.
Striking the ivory with more energy.
Skipping with a renewed outlook,
The cymbals and bass followed behind.
A new resolve lifted the saxophone’s cadence.
It was time to move on, to move forward with new things.
“Yeah, but what are these two in the corner grinning about?” Didn’t they know she was gone for good? More or less, for the better or worse. He would be traveling his well worn habit from doorway to refrigerator later that evening, but she would not be waiting at the kitchen table for him. Waiting for him to come home. Waiting for him to come to bed with her in the light humidity of the evening air.
She was gone.
The song coming to a close.
Making its way toward the door.
It lingers in open space.
The ostinato of the cymbals slow.
The piano holds the notes a bit longer.
Looking back one last time.
Wondering what could have been.
by malakhai jonezs
© Copyright 2016
A tribute to John Coltrane’s “In a Sentimental Mood.”