The brick building across the street loomed quietly outside the triad of tall, narrow windows in the upstairs all-night jazz loft.
A sax player breaks from his attributed drones while the drummer and bass roll forward, eyes closed and committed to carrying the moment through.
My tongue ashen from a minutes-ago sidewalk cigarette break with a woman divorcée from Marysville. Her voice pleasant and smooth as she asks for a light.
The bartender quietly clinks wine glasses in a small sink filled with familiar scented soapy water. He shakes my hand.
The pianist squinting through thick, black glasses taps out layered melodies as I borrow a pen from the man next to me.
Written on the napkin under my beer: This.
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