Tuesday Jam Session

Long before the show started, he was standing by the tiny door, hardly recognizable in the long line of restaurants and coffee shops, with a bleak poster stuck at the front: "Tuesday Jam Session: All welcome!”

His stiff black hair was wet with the rain. He shivered at the cold wind trying to get under his shirt, but he knew neither wind nor rain would find its way into the tightly sealed leather case he was clutching to his chest.

Rubbed on the sides, it concealed his most precious possession: a trumpet with a hand- crafted rose brass bell. He checked his wrist watch: the show was about to begin. A man with a large square bag hurriedly walked past, slamming the door in his face.

A musician, he thought, perhaps, much better than he was. Uncertain, he stepped back, as if ready to leave. He was a shy man, after all.

He looked down, stroked the case for reassurance of the trumpet’s safety. His mind’s eye followed the gentle curves of his beloved friend, his only friend.

As if by magic, a steady flow of confidence filled his chest, causing him to smile.

“We will do it. Tonight”, he whispered, again and again, until he finally believed it. He gathered his strength and entered the bar.

The cover: Wassily Kandinsky, "White sound"