Very gently, almost in slow motion he placed the glass on the table, allowing the soft grains of the wood and the hard edge of the tumbler to merge. The empty bottle rested on its side where it had fallen earlier.
The music however, continued; maybe it was even a little louder.
Miles Davis, The Witch’s Brew.
His host had chosen this track to empty the room and partially it had, but Steve sat nodding his head and moving his body to the rhythms and beat that were beginning to unfold around him.
He was leaving nowhere soon.
‘I used to use this track to send guests home from my wife’s dinner parties’, confessed the host, ‘she hated it’.
Steve swayed a little more.
‘She hated me, I guess’ The host added, after a little pause.
It needed to be said, but until now it hadn’t.
‘It doesn’t look like anything I would call love, but who am I to say?’ Steve stared at the tumbler, even it had started to lose its certainty.
‘I still love her; I just can’t say her name.’ The host started to cry. Just a little at first and then his tears fell like rain does in the desert, sweeping everything before it in a damaging wave. The deeply cleansing sobs followed until the tumbler, the table and the room were drowned and washed away and nothing remained except the memory of all this .
And an empty bottle.
With no message.
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