Night of Nights

You have them.

They echo in your head, your mind. That Night.

You remember the one, you danced/kissed/made love with Her/Him.

Or you were the spotlight, not the one in it, of it, the total focus of your friends even if you weren't because that is how you remember it.

Or the aligning of all, the perfect juxtaposition of brother/sisterhood.

---

R had a got an invitation to play with B, a veritable old man of the song and rhyme, of the blues, straight Delta rhythm.

An aside, the blues scale is simple, but subtly complex since it limits the range of the sax, the instrument R played.

He invited me, and being a failure at social interaction I followed.

It promised to be a wide departure from the usual Phoenix scene at any rate.

We arrived at the bar, and I went for the usual liter of Amberbock.

J was working that night, since R's choice in bars was mainly ruled by his second head, and had followed her after she had left our usual haunt.

This time it had led him into this opportunity.

The opportunity to play with B.

I was hardly immune to J.

I was hard thinking of J.

It was the typical condition brought about by an vibrant, unreachable, Teutonic goddess.

And I was fine that I was only a friend, since she was fun to talk with.

I didn't care, because J had just brought me another beer.

R was waiting, suddenly timid.

He could be that way.

"Get up there," I said, attempting to psychically transfer my liquid courage.

He finally did.

They played.

J brought me another drink.

On her, unasked.

A full pint glass and mini pitcher of Miller Lite.

They were out of liter mugs.

R began to play.

Riffing off of the scale allowed.

He was in his Thing.

I envy him, his musical talent, his world I'll never know.

It is safe envy, the envy of one friend to another.

People began to dance, white people dancing which is quite possibly the most hilarious thing in the universe, but we don't care.

I didn't care.

Because after the mug and pitcher of horrible beer, I was going to dance with J.

The song was slow, and the night wasn't for slow songs, it was a night for fast, wild abandon.

She came back, joked, and I stood up.

I didn't care she had a boyfriend.

I didn't care she was leaving town in a few weeks.

All I cared about was tonight, her incredulous but happy laugh as she took my hand.

And we danced as R played.

I spun her around, and she stopped for a moment.

"I don't want to stab you," she said, which is a good indication of at the very least friendship, as she ran over and tossed the pen in her hand on a nearby table, and returned.

And we danced again.

Easily the most beautiful woman in the bar, and I was dancing with her as she laughed without contempt, a broad smile on her face.

And R was playing with an old master of the blues, preaching his gospel of the blues scale while I spun J around again.

And it was a Night of Nights.