jazz

The Jazz was soft. The restaurant was dim. It was attractive from the outside, but in an old school, old timey sort of way. If you looked at it from a modern perspective, whatever that may be, it looked work down, the paint was chipped, the windows too big, the sign too garish. But if you suffered from that human affliction of being optimistically stuck in the past, longing for better times that may or may not exist only in your memory, otherwise known as nostalgia, then it was pretty beautiful to you. You were drawn to it. Even if there were only a few diners in it at any given point, even jazz nights such as this one.

The lady sat in the back, nothing strange about her except for the hat in her scalp. But then again, people who came to any of these things anymore instead of sitting at home and watching Netflix, and ‘chilling’, as the kids called it were strange people. The world had changed. The people here had not moved on. Usually.

Her eyes were closed now, but on closer inspection, coming closer to her, you would see her face turn and glance at you, and in that one glance, she would see everything about you. You would shudder as you would feel your soul picked apart and scrutinized. Her eyes blue. Her hair yellow. But she did not fill the stereotype that was cast like a blanket over the people that had those characteristics.

The wind outside was hot but fast. Some college students stumbled back from campus and the bars around it, to their apartments here.

The jazz continued, unperturbed. The musicians were playing with passion, some of the last bastions of their breed. It was sad, melancholy, hopeful, uplifting. She closed her eyes once more and began to enjoy it. Her body swaying with the music.

On her table sat an untouched drink. The liquid that sloshed inside the wine glass was beet red. They finished. She stood up and started clapping, somehow still the picture of elegance and grace.

She motioned to the waiter, and ordered a round of drinks for everyone. Some folks raised their glasses in her direction and began to drink. They didn’t notice anything strange. If anything, it tasted good. Better than any wine they had ever had. They were shocked. Some of the regulars had been coming here for years. And this establishment had never had anything this good.

The jazz tonight was particularly good too. The one player in the back was new, hair black in stark contrast to his companions, his eyes beady, and darting around a lot. He wasn’t very good, yet somehow the jazz was better with him in the group. 

Her eyes were now open and looking around with interest. This had played over rather well. Across the river, in an apartment, a man lay pale and lifeless. His skin was sallow. Sunken. He was clearly dead. But there was something else that was odd. There was were no blood in his body.