Dark at 6 pm now. I walked to the bedroom window to close the curtains, looked out at the last traces of light in the sky, the dark street, the neighbors’ lit windows…and suddenly missed wine. Not the taste or how it made me feel, it was the ritual I missed.
Oh, who am I kidding? It was all three. What I pictured as I looked at those glowing rectangles of light across the street was my heavy drinking neighbors sitting down with wine and munchies. I could see the wine in the glasses (it was chardonnay), the beads of water on the bottle, the warmth and laughter….God! What IS this? My sobriety calculator says I’ve been sober 1,324 days–do I really still have to deal with this stupidity? (Stupid shit was what I wanted to say, but heard my mother’s voice.)
I suppose I should be thankful this hasn’t happened in a long time, but why did it happen now? My mood, I guess, and that instant romanticizing of the scene out the window. I’m old and feeling sad, out of the stream of life.
It used to be, a very long time ago, I would’ve been getting ready to go out at this time of the evening. The night had possibility, mystery, magic. Once I had a boyfriend who was a saxophone player. When he wasn’t working we’d hit the clubs. It was a great time for jazz in San Francisco–Miles Davis, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie, Cannonball Adderley, Thelonious Monk–they were all here, and he knew many of them. We’d sit at a table in someplace like the Jazz Workshop, listening to great music and squinting through the smoke, nursing a drink to make it last. Between sets they’d come over and talk–shop talk mostly, who was playing where, what gigs were coming up. I sat there starry-eyed and tongue-tied, totally out of my element, loving it.
So of course I had to go on YouTube and listen to some of those guys, and now it’s almost eight and we haven’t had any dinner. But I’m not sad anymore. It was a great age for jazz.