FOREVERMORE YOURS, THE HATRED CHORDThe tiny wooden stage squeezed into the room’s corner was unimpressive: lit morosely in feeble luminescence from the ancient lighting rack; a pair of battered amplifiers like time-weary guards adorning either side of the wooden platform; and a dusty tattered black velvet curtain hanging behind with kitschy speckles meant to represent stars dusted into its fabric.
Then her arrival, and the ragged backdrop was disappeared, and only the woman and her songs were with him in the cramped dingy tavern. No more drinkers lining the bar like dirty pigeons; no more stink of smoke and sweat and urine in the air; no more thoughts circling in his skull, banging from each other and hurting him with their thorny touches.
Her dress on Mondays was always pale in colour.
