Part 2
On his touch the lights over the mirror whizzed. It seemed the every other day one of them died, so that now only half of the bulbs were lighted. Harlem didn't much mind. Even with its perpetual darkness, the dressing room was his favorite haunt. Somehow, it put him at ease to linger between the left-overs: the rack of fur coats; the glitter that whirled up and clung to clothes and bodies; the bottle of scotch, a glow of gold in the dim light; and of course, in the corner, his bass, old and worn.
He sank down on his chair, drink within reach, playing a little with his watch chain, before drawing it out completely. It had stopped running years ago. He hadn't even tried to wind it. Still, he kept the thing close at all times, checking it ever so often, against his better judgment.
Geen opmerkingen:
Een reactie posten