Brass Without Brass

Chapter — Brass Without Brass

I’m brass, I’m jazz, and then she wore colors.
Jazz, where’s the brass? There’s no brass. There’s only a Larabar melting in the palm of my hand, a dragonfly hovering above the rim of my glass, a blue kite snagged on a nail, an amethyst glinting from someone’s pocket, and crystals that catch the light in ways no sheet music could ever hold.

Jazz and lights.
And there’s a balloon — no, not a balloon, just two mannequins standing in front of her, both dressed in hula skirts, both tethered to each other with a thin red cord like a vein. Their love is visible. Both wear sunglasses shaped like sunflowers, and each has a hat — the hats don’t match, but the air between them does.

Above me is a Christmas ornament, too big for any tree, so big it’s the size of the whole place. And we’re in a garage — except the garage has turned into a bar. Half of it is covered in graffiti, the kind you can’t photograph because it lives better in memory.

A giant oriental sign hangs above the liquor shelf, its red characters whispering something I’ll never fully understand but will remember for the rest of my life.

Across from me, the opposite wall blooms with graffiti, colors bleeding into each other like a horn player forgetting the time signature. A single TV hangs crooked, showing a blonde woman I don’t recognize. Her lips move but the sound is swallowed by the bass line.

Two people just walked in.
I wonder if they know they’re walking into a song.