(no subject)

[valmont-vicomte.livejournal.com]

Later the same evening. Jazz Funeral. The bar is about half full; a jazz quartet and singer are performing.

The air is tinged blue with smoke, light filtering yellow through it and gleaming against the brass fixtures of the bar and the cut glass of the whisky glasses.

You ain't been blue; no, no, no.
You ain't been blue,
Till you've had that mood indigo.
That feelin' goes stealin' down to my shoes
While I sit and sigh, "Go 'long blues".

The singer's voice snakes regretfully across the bar like the wisps of cigarette smoke. Conversation hums quietly, and I light a cigarette and sip my whisky. It is nice to be a patron, rather than a bartender, for a change. And this place is far enough from the Whitechapel that it feels like a break. I can relax my guard a little, be someone other than the smiling Valmont who makes an excellent screwdriver. The languorous sadness of this singer's voice reminds me of the blues music I grew up with and seems to suit my introspective mood. I sit back in my seat and watch the performance, cigarette in hand.