The club...

No neon sign marks out the dingy basement; just a darkened doorway and a candle in the window to let those who know that they’re open. The banister beside the stairs is made of rotting wood and the stairs, constantly wet, are slippery making the descent into to club treacherous. The door is only ever open in those summer months when the humidity rises and the choice is to suffocate, it must be a sturdy door because you can only hear the music at street level on those days. It draws a few side-ways glances but rarely any extra patronage.

There’s always a girl sitting at a table in the centre of the room. Intermittently one will leave and a new one will come, but there’s always one there. Sometimes she wears jeans and a knitted jumper or t-shirt and other times she wears a summer dress, light and airy, that catches the breeze under the table. She sits opposite a man, probably a date, but maybe not, and she gazes at him adoringly while he talks on, seemingly oblivious to her adoration. You can tell it’s love by the look in her eyes, they’re not looking into the future or the past, they’re in the moment and she’s a million miles away, with him at her side. The decay around her doesn’t seem to bother her, because she doesn’t even notice it’s there; she’s too young, she still has a taste for living on the edge… she thinks it’s bohemian. Sometimes I wish I was in that guy’s position, beautiful woman hanging on every word. Maybe, sometimes, I am, I’m just too oblivious to notice.

When there’s no band, most nights of the week, the juke-box blares out a combination of broken-hearted blues and power-ballads from the 1980’s. Most of the bands do covers in a similar vein, giving the place a very comfortable feeling of heartache and alcoholism. At least it keeps us off the streets. Occasionally one of the bands will try something new and the patrons don’t mind, but the place almost inevitably returns to what it knows; this bar just doesn’t have the glamour factor that attracts new bands or the hot set.

I order a scotch on the rocks from the bar and some songs from the juke-box, find myself a seat with a good view of the area and I settle in to watch. Sometimes I watch the feet of people passing on the pavement, sometimes I watch those who come in. Mostly regulars, but occasionally someone new will be drawn in but the sound of music floating through the open door. I like to watch people: how they interact, the way they carry themselves, what they drink… A flaming red-head walks into the bar, and orders a drink from the bar-tender. She turns around and I think I see her sneaking a glance at me, out the corner of my eye. I’m never sure though, so I just wave shyly at her and leave it at that, quickly turning back to my scotch. I withdraw and watch the world passing me by.

I’ve played through the scenario in my head so many times. I walk up to her and sweep her off her feet with all the things I just can’t say to her. She gazes at me adoringly; like the girl in the middle of the room, the one who’s dancing with her date, a contented smile on her face and a “this one’s in the bag” grin on his. But unlike him I know how she feels, and I feel the same. We’re in the moment, but a million miles away, in the Mediterranean without a care in the world. Hopes, dreams and fears have all melted into the warmth of the moment, the warmth of the sun overhead. Nothing else matters: just that this moment never ends, that we hold each other while we watch the world closing in on itself.

In a flash the image is gone, the sun becomes the candle in the window again as the bar comes back into focus. Crowded House wafts from the juke-box… She’s laughing with someone else, up at the bar; she sneaks a glance again but I don’t notice, the dream has slipped away; once again the magic is gone.

It's late and I'm tired but I decide to head back to the office just to write... I don't know what, I just need to write to clear my head...