The lights flickered endlessly as if they hoped for Humphrey Bogart to swagger in.
Saxophones and trumpets smoothly flowed out of the worn black turntable.
Round and round the records spun, creating a spiral of blurry darkness.

The air was cold, stingy, and wet.
It laid itself heavily on the rows of frail bar stools.
The pictures on the walls, hung askew but only ever so slightly.
The wooden floor was scattered with scuffs, shells of forgotten peanuts, and looming shadows.

The man’s hands effortlessly moved, as he picked dark bottles off the uneasy shelf.
His mouth let out words of encouragement, understanding, and gentle advice but his eyes grew more uncaring after every word he uttered.

The woman’s dress glided around her unending legs, as she walked with quiet confidence.
Her hair fell around her face, covering a portion of her curious eyes, and dark wine stained lips.

The boy shivered, his hands out as if they were trying to catch raindrops.
His dirt adorned shoes tapping against the cracking stone.

The old man ran his shadowy fingers against the exterior of the cool piano.
His ears tingled, as his mind brought him back.

The moon shone through the dark tinted glass, bringing curved backs, longing eyes, and drifting minds, into tainted view.

The old clock’s small hands spun in perfect rhythm to the room’s smoky, heavy air.

The hand hit eleven.

The moon shone.

The lights flickered.