Finishing off the last swig of the last beer, I sit back.
All I can hear is the slow heavy, drowsy soul slipping off the notes the trumpet is playing from the small stereo – the perfect notes, hit in just such a way. The surely dark rooms where these notes were recorded. Once upon a time, somewhere somehow so far away now. A different, better world.
The view of the romantic.
“Hold me close in old – this is la vie en rose” Louis Armstrong sings. I want to be the lover of Louis. I want to be the girl who’s eyes he is looking into so deeply it almost hurts- almost tangible; “Give your heart and soul to me, and life will always be la vie en rose-” he sways again.
And then again with the trumpet- there’s nothing like it. Nothing in this world.
Not to a lonely girl like me on a Friday night.