The vibrant swaying of the bass-strings, they lure me in until I’m thrown out and caught by the whimsical beating of the drums.
Rhythmic, never harmful.
Dumbfounded, I smile.
I watch the drummer as I imitate his moves with my arms. In response, he raises an eyebrow in amused confusion.
I’m swept up by the vibrations of the guitar, or more so, by the guitarist. His stance, leaning against the piano, emanates sex. A woman in the audience is captivated by him, she has caught his eye. They flirt in the invisible open, I ponder, in the background, over all that can be said without words.
Somewhere in-between the jazz-bar, the red wine touching my tongue beneath the heat lamps and the sunny steps of Montmartre, I feel it. The long-forgotten, self-inflicted happiness comes surging through me.