Black Velvet

There she was: sitting on a bar stool, alone, in a cone of light. She wore Mary Janes, sheer black tights, and a black velvet dress that hugged her with melancholy. Black Velvet, that’s the song I would put in the background of this scene.

I continued to watch her from across the room from my lonely booth, in my own cone of light. The hustle and bustle around us moved in shadow. A crash came from the kitchen. Everyone else looked up to see what had fallen and who had caused it. Everyone but her, then me.

She continued to sit with her elbows on the counter, hands on her forehead, looking down, lost in the misery of her own little world. I was also lost in the misery of her world, and the world I could build around it.

With my notebook open and pen in hand, I pondered her story.

The cone of light around her reflected off the engagement ring tangled in her hair. A cocktail rested on the counter next to her. I wanted her to stir the ice around, but she hadn’t even taken a sip. She wasn’t there to pass the time; she was there to drown in it. Her world was black and white, surrounded by fog. My world for her was like a scene in an old Hollywood movie; it was black velvet.