Coffee Club
The club is a mist of smoke. Ink blots swirl on the dance floor, radianting and dissipating in rainbow colors before my eyes. There’s a din, a cacophonous hammer of sound that has no definition, no melody, just a beat. A loud, resounding echo of fun.
The floorboards of the old, underground space pulse with zealous delight.
But, there’s hope in every dim space, a thread of magic, a spin of enchantment.
Mr Leo is a pianist, he rides the waves of the ugly underbelly with his elegant compositions. He’s a maestro. A musician, and a coffee lover, of note. The dance floor clears whenever he takes his seat and the club sways to his melodious keys. The people here are not critics or connoisseurs, they come to the club to smooth their erratic lives.
Everybody knows that, everyone.
Mr Leo wears dark glasses. He plays a silken tune. The underground grows still, while his music thrills.
In the dark purple glow that surrounds Mr Leo’s sound, people gather like moths to a flame. There’s a certain kind of magic that accompanies excellence. I watch as Mr Leo’s force draws and disperses the room. People want to get close to him, but like a magnetic force their attraction pushes them back until they can feel the vibrations, without the view.
I’m not a person drawn by ambiance, I’ve never been a member of that crowd. I attend the club to serve the patrons, to deliver their drinks on time and pretend that they’re kings of their castles in the cloud of illicit fumes they exhaust. Mr Leo, of course, he’s different, he has the gift.
Reciprocation swirls thick through the room; you may not come as you go. I feel the pull of the everlasting, I resist because I know. I never dance to Mr Leo’s strings, I plug my ears. Naturally, the reason for my trepidation is the eradications that occur.
Mr Leo, simply, takes those that concur. He doesn’t work against a person’s will, his sorcery is convoluted, you’ve got to give him your will.
And never be seen to surface again…dance on, dance on…
Only the aroma of coffee lives on.
