Gelled-up and sleep-deprived, the bass-player takes an empty seat
next to me.
He has just finished his set; he says
he’s the only one from my high school attending college in Amsterdam.
We are parallel-parked, two armchairs facing the stage
(now empty),
with the stage lights down,
instruments tucked in for the night,
and, now, me trying to figure out
where to put my hands
because I forget how to talk to people sometimes.
“It’s nice being the only one,” he breathes out loud, and I can almost
agree with him.
He had started the conversation with
“You here alone tonight?” and I couldn’t give a straight answer
even then. The stage lights jog a memory,
so, the second time he speaks,
I rewind a soundtrack in my head.
Not the jazz music from tonight or the statement about Amsterdam
but my name in another’s voice,
one who spoke it into reality—
she had given me a nickname three years ago.
It’s the only one I’ve ever gotten
that stuck.
I’ve tried not to count these kinds of things,
but it’s been nine months, almost ten, since the last time I
thought to give her a call.
I didn’t think
I’d be thinking today,
which, really, was the reason I came alone.
I came alone to listen to jazz today:
listen is a word I repeat a lot
when I talk about her.
The stage lights jog a memory, but
my hands still have not found the right place to go.
The bass-player, sincere and over-worked, tells me
improvisation in jazz is about harmonies.
I listen as an act of conversation:
my thoughts do not match the tune
of his words. He is leaning back into the armchair,
parallel-parked and tucked into the high of performance.
I came alone to listen to jazz today, but the stage lights
jog a memory.
I am comfy, parallel-parked, I am thankful
for the gift of music, and he has had a wonderful night,
so I cannot tell him about this.
I can’t tell him about how
the last time I was with her,
we talked about Amsterdam.
How we said, “I should probably
head home” about four times
then each time
went somewhere new together instead.
I can’t tell him about the dreams I’ve had since then,
the flashes of spotlight or bruises or legs, and me,
me, breathless, knocked-over microphone stand, each time
I thought about seeing her again,
alive.
The stage lights jog a memory, parallel-parked,
me sitting, face warm with spotlight
and laughter from sitting next to her. It’s been so long.
I can’t tell him about how
he was not the only one from my high school in Amsterdam.
But I know better than to ad-lib here,
know better than to improvise off-key, interject that
there was another,
the girl who bought mango ice with me,
shared hugs and bus rides with me,
sat, skated, and danced with me.
So, instead, I join his instruments
and quiet down for the night. I say,
“It is nice to be alone sometimes.
I know what that feels like too.”