The Jazz Club

I climbed down a granite stairwell that was cool to the touch. The trumpet’s blare grew louder with each step, glancing off the walls of the narrow corridor.

The music and the heat rose as I reached the basement floor. I unbuttoned my shirt as I peered around the corner and saw a mass of people dancing, cheering, smiling, faltering, and sweating with the band on stage conducted the whole affair. The older couple that had been chastised by the hostess for not buying tickets in advance stood in front of me. Small wooden chairs and tables lined the wall’s edge, a place to observe the dance floor just a few feet away. I ordered a beer that was fairly priced and refreshing, and ordered a second soon after. Faint columns of light fell through the shadow-laden room through small lamps dangling from the ceiling, revealing the black stains on the walls that made the space look more like a bomb shelter than a club.

A beautiful woman in a black dress sat on the other side of the room. She looked as if she belonged to the pictures on the walls from seventy years ago, and was gently stunning. Her raven dark hair matched the dress that hit just above her knee, where a man’s hand rested. They sat on a bright red leather couch that looked terribly out of place against the bomb-blasted walls.

I felt very alone. While I enjoyed walking through the city by myself over the past few days, seeing her reminded me of someone. The preceding summer did not help. I did not know how I could feel sad in a place like this, surrounded by such unrestrained happiness. So I decided to enjoy myself instead.