Vocabularily Adventurous
from the mixed-up files of E. G. Morgan
A Chip of Glass | Prose
Diamond to Ash
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(I'm hoping to submit this to my school's lit magazine, so your comments are especially welcome.)
He wrote a song for me, and I used to do it at the end of every Friday night show. As soon as echoes of the last chord of that snappy jazz tune had almost evaporated above the heads of my crowd, the lights would dim and the regulars would whisper, "This is it, this is the one I was telling you about." Almost in unison. And we would begin, Harry and I, piano and singer alone on a rose-colored stage. I'd always drift over and get lost in the red pools of light that gathered like spring rainwater on the top of his velvety baby grand. The piano seemed to play itself, allowing Harry to watch me with that look in his eye, the one that said, "Only you." And my crowd would fade away into the half-darkness, and my combo would melt into the floor of the stage, and the song would wrap around us like a fog. Just me and Harry and the music.
I saw a photograph of it once. Harry and I were alone in a crowded jazz club, and my right wrist glowed---I always wore that bracelet on Friday nights. In the photograph I was wearing my gold gown, the slinky one with the diamond brooch and the train. My twelve karat comb was nestled safely in my hair, and the cigar smoke seemed to swirl around me as if I were fresh air. It really was a lovely photograph, but the songwriter said it didn't do me justice. He said that, on that night, the rose-tinted lamps turned my hair into copper, and lit up my gown like an inferno, and turned my diamonds to fire. He held that I was aflame that night, and not just because I was the hottest thing in New York. Then he gave me the ring.
In Union Square, when all the mothers, children, and Christians were asleep and the streets belonged to jazz. We wandered past the dimly-lit windows of S. Klein, where I bought that bracelet---the first thing I paid for after my first gig. That was before I discovered Fifth Avenue and credit. And my songwriter. We crossed the street, stood by the statue of Georgie, and decided on forever. With the ring smoldering on my hand and my hand burning in his, forever hardly seemed like enough time.
The ring's still on my finger, where it's been for three years. It still sparkles like it did, still catches the glow of the stage lights, and it will until the end, just like a diamond should. I should've given it back to him when he left. Every day it reminds me of the things he said---the ridiculous accusations about my supposed affair with my best friend, Harry; the claim that I would never get better at what I do, that soon my crowd would fade away like I imagined them doing every Friday night; the threat to take back his song, saying he'd give it to a singer in Chicago who would do it justice. The ring reminds me of the moment he walked out of the club, taking my livelihood with him in the guise of a song.
When Harry asked me to marry him, I couldn't refuse. Harry had the means to pay my bills and buy my cigarettes, which were my only solace when I lost my youth and my voice. Harry was still a great piano player, accompanying all the finest new singers in New York, as I had once been. The crowds stay the same---it's the performers who fade into memory.
I heard the song on the radio yesterday. It was different than I remembered it, with odd vowels and harmonies. I laughed and took off the ring, setting it on my nightstand, next to the lamp with the rose-colored shade. It shimmered like fire for a moment before I put it back on.
He wrote a song for me, and I used to do it at the end of every Friday night show. As soon as echoes of the last chord of that snappy jazz tune had almost evaporated above the heads of my crowd, the lights would dim and the regulars would whisper, "This is it, this is the one I was telling you about." Almost in unison. And we would begin, Harry and I, piano and singer alone on a rose-colored stage. I'd always drift over and get lost in the red pools of light that gathered like spring rainwater on the top of his velvety baby grand. The piano seemed to play itself, allowing Harry to watch me with that look in his eye, the one that said, "Only you." And my crowd would fade away into the half-darkness, and my combo would melt into the floor of the stage, and the song would wrap around us like a fog. Just me and Harry and the music.
I saw a photograph of it once. Harry and I were alone in a crowded jazz club, and my right wrist glowed---I always wore that bracelet on Friday nights. In the photograph I was wearing my gold gown, the slinky one with the diamond brooch and the train. My twelve karat comb was nestled safely in my hair, and the cigar smoke seemed to swirl around me as if I were fresh air. It really was a lovely photograph, but the songwriter said it didn't do me justice. He said that, on that night, the rose-tinted lamps turned my hair into copper, and lit up my gown like an inferno, and turned my diamonds to fire. He held that I was aflame that night, and not just because I was the hottest thing in New York. Then he gave me the ring.
In Union Square, when all the mothers, children, and Christians were asleep and the streets belonged to jazz. We wandered past the dimly-lit windows of S. Klein, where I bought that bracelet---the first thing I paid for after my first gig. That was before I discovered Fifth Avenue and credit. And my songwriter. We crossed the street, stood by the statue of Georgie, and decided on forever. With the ring smoldering on my hand and my hand burning in his, forever hardly seemed like enough time.
The ring's still on my finger, where it's been for three years. It still sparkles like it did, still catches the glow of the stage lights, and it will until the end, just like a diamond should. I should've given it back to him when he left. Every day it reminds me of the things he said---the ridiculous accusations about my supposed affair with my best friend, Harry; the claim that I would never get better at what I do, that soon my crowd would fade away like I imagined them doing every Friday night; the threat to take back his song, saying he'd give it to a singer in Chicago who would do it justice. The ring reminds me of the moment he walked out of the club, taking my livelihood with him in the guise of a song.
When Harry asked me to marry him, I couldn't refuse. Harry had the means to pay my bills and buy my cigarettes, which were my only solace when I lost my youth and my voice. Harry was still a great piano player, accompanying all the finest new singers in New York, as I had once been. The crowds stay the same---it's the performers who fade into memory.
I heard the song on the radio yesterday. It was different than I remembered it, with odd vowels and harmonies. I laughed and took off the ring, setting it on my nightstand, next to the lamp with the rose-colored shade. It shimmered like fire for a moment before I put it back on.
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