West Coast Cool. By Wayne H.W Wolfson.
The city, the night, she turns away with a sky that blushes a saturnine purple.
Blood just below the surface of a skin.
I lay on my back, the wooden crate I use for a night table nursing a broken clock radio and some Dante. I turn onto my side to face the window. The air is cooling and it feels like a romance ending. The sweet scent pf Hyacinth, wait, in between the twinkling notes of the cicadas and now too, an underlying bouquet of herbal decay sneaking in with the perfume.
There should be more music. A requiem for the day, killed by the night and now night soon to be found dead by the dawn.
Keeping the light off, I take Maxine from her case. I know I can not play her proper, not at this hour. I let my fingertips caress the velvet in which she had just been laying.
Even in the dark, she somewhat shines, muted brass of an urban icon whom I worship with song.
I put the mouth piece to my lips and exhale the way one does in a kiss. My fingers work the keys, I hear the soft taps of the pads.
That is it, enough to take away the itch. One less desire to think about. I spread out a dirty tee shirt and lay her on top of the dresser.
I lay back down and try not to start thinking about it again, the itch is gone, it should not really matter, I am not the first one who has not properly blessed a dead friend.
I sit up, briefly. Laying back down again, on my back now, the pillow rises above the sides of my head, the cicadas, the song is now muffled. Tomorrow is another day in which to go crazy.
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