Smooth Jazz

Turn the lights down low, put on some viscous music, pour yourself a glass of tobacco and cross your legs. It's night time.

The rain is lolloping against the windows. Your silk nightie is caressing your thighs like waves of chocolate.

You know that somewhere out there is a wet stranger. He or she is standing under a lamppost, sheltering themselves with a saxophone case. And he or she is waiting for you to make the first move.

You will make the first move. But not quite yet.

You're having too much fun.

You trace his or her initials on the leather sofa with the tip of your index finger. The first letter is an H. The second looks like some kind of snake pictogram. You remember something. The memory slides out of you and into you. It's not like thought. It's something more basic; more primal.

Memory is breathing. Recollections flow like the river. It passes over you and you pass through it. You both move together. It's a dance.

You take a sip. You smile. Then you gag on the tobacco. It's gone down the wrong pipe. You're coughing for ages.

You get a text from Harry/Harriet. Wet, but no stranger. You were supposed to pick her or him up fifteen minutes ago. Your nightie is splattered with tobacco and music. You've forgotten what you remembered.

On goes the overcoat and the slippers. You turn the music off, pick up your car keys, and head out into the night. It's freezing. You buy a kebab on the way home. Harriet gets a battered sausage. Ditto Harry.

Somewhere the moon is shining. It illuminates individual raindrops with precision; silver fingers on piano keys.

You watch an old episode of Only Fools and Horses that you Sky nonplussed.

You fall asleep.

The rain falls with you.