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173

Nahtalia's Perfect Blues

Wayne Wolfson By

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The place was empty, even of the tourists who don't matter. I won't be paid to play, this too does not matter.

The piano squints, letting a few notes slip out, before I am told to leave it alone for fear of having to stand me a round.

No money and not even the false hope that something may happen, I leave. I hum a song to myself, that song, her song

The sky is a prop, flat black. Walking down the street, three times I heard the same song when your name was mentioned.

Don Juan's daughter is destined to be lonely.

Yet I only talk to her across an empty bar over drinks. I had jinxed myself, no notepad, I write down the things I should have said on a napkin, under a flickering street lamp. All words to describe a tragic kingdom.

I am not thinking, just humming to myself. The perfect blues are always sung by one voice.


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