It all started with the setting of a lavish restaurant where Sinatra entered in the most extravagant suit complimented by a hat along with the company of more extravagance. The entire room smelled of champagne, caviars and diamonds and he was trying to find love in the fake laugh of the beautiful woman sitting before him. Then he noticed the singer who had been singing in a moderate volume with a music which failed to match the setting and was more real to the ear than Sinatra could expect from such a place. In that split second glimpse of the band, the background blabbering of his wife and the twinkle of all the crystals that her cherry blonde hair strands wore took him someplace he remembered the most clearly.

Everything was brassy, the chairs, the tables, the bar and the drinks. An old place that felt young as it hung music on its walls that rung there permanently in there own spaces and with time each one got its chance to come forth the loudest. And here Sinatra entered with a group of boys wearing faded and stained shirts and trousers with suspenders. Each of them having a drink to hold and their youths painted on their faces.

It all began rapidly and ended even quicker. He saw her there dancing and singing, laughing through her dark maroon lipstick and eyes closed as she lived in that second when the beat jumped through her flowing cherry blonde hair. He went to her and matched her rhythm and they danced like it had all been choreographed before, the  conversations. He told her what he was and she could understand exactly, his pain and hurt. She could make people cry with her voice but he was susceptible because he had her and so he had control. A studio apartment, instruments, bliss and them sleeping together on a mattress.

The split second ended and he was back in the age when the face reflected lesser than what he had lost in time. The singer wore a glitter dress and sang like the nightingale did, and he sat there looking at her singing his life. The love and hurt; the smile and pain; him and her; everything. His love still dissolved in her youth once married to music, and he desperately wished for her to sing him back to the time. Her voice was killing him softly and he was no longer immune because he did not have the control, he could not have her.

“She sang as if she knew him in all his dark despair and then she looked right through him as if he wasn’t there. But she was there, the stranger, singing clear and strong. Killing him softly with her song, telling his whole life with her words, killing him softly with her song.”

via Daily Prompt: Brassy

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