Postcard from the past

The pub is small and underground and the seats are made of soft red.

I sat at the bar, listening to your message once again, and still smiling, spun on my stool like a liberated child. Before me on a little stage a beautiful woman with severe and mysterious bangs performed music that was alien and precious and entirely lovely. In a nearby booth there was a young couple– arm in arm, their heads pressed together. They swayed to the music. Oh, oh, what a beautiful autumn night, really, what a lovely night, and this couple, you could see that they weren’t expecting to find this tiny miracle unfolding before them, this music playing just for them. They were just out for a quick drink, maybe a bite, but now they were in the middle of a poem, everything they encountered a happy accident, the soundtrack to their romance.

I had to leave a little bit early and the musician was still performing. As I passed by her I turned and smiled, giving her the thumbs up and mouthing the word, “awesome.” She smiled and nodded, and I like to think her eyes sparked with a little bit of surprise and gratitude, and then I hit the street, a little bit of rain falling, and I was then, as I am now, thinking of you.