Vocabularily Adventurous
from the mixed-up files of E. G. Morgan
A Chip of Glass | Prose
Sept. 4
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He wrote a song for me, and I used to do it at the end of every Friday night show. As soon as the last chord of that snappy jazz tune had almost disappeared 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, forget about the silent sax and the still drums that made a fortune playing with me every night, and get lost in the red pools of light that gathered like spring rainwater on the top of his velvety baby grand. Harry knew it by heart, and he'd 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 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 he 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 said I was aflame that night, and not just because I was the hottest thing in New York. He said I was "the most beautiful woman in America" and he gave me the ring.
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 forever, 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, how he ridiculously accused me of having an affair with Harry, my best friend; how he sneered that I would never get better at what I do, and soon my crowd will fade away like I imagined them doing every Friday night; how he took back his song, saying he'd give it to a singer in Paris who would do it justice. How he walked out of the club, taking my heart with him. And after that, everything came true.
When Harry asked me to marry him, I couldn't refuse. He was still a great piano player, accompanying all the finest new singers in New York, like he had once done with me. The crowds stay the same--it's the performers who fade into memory.
I heard the song on the radio the other day. It was different than I remembered it, distinctly French. 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.
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 he 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 said I was aflame that night, and not just because I was the hottest thing in New York. He said I was "the most beautiful woman in America" and he gave me the ring.
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 forever, 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, how he ridiculously accused me of having an affair with Harry, my best friend; how he sneered that I would never get better at what I do, and soon my crowd will fade away like I imagined them doing every Friday night; how he took back his song, saying he'd give it to a singer in Paris who would do it justice. How he walked out of the club, taking my heart with him. And after that, everything came true.
When Harry asked me to marry him, I couldn't refuse. He was still a great piano player, accompanying all the finest new singers in New York, like he had once done with me. The crowds stay the same--it's the performers who fade into memory.
I heard the song on the radio the other day. It was different than I remembered it, distinctly French. 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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E.G.
01:24 AM on September 17, 2008
Yes, you CAN comment on this blog. No really, it's okay. <br> <br>...but I figured I'd check to make sure commenting actually worked.
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