Still Untitled_
A sort of quiet man sits alone across the room. He sips his coke, through the aid of a thin, white straw; a lonely soul on this evening of renewal. The group towards the bar, consisting of 6, maybe 7 people steals attention away from him for a second. Their laughter overzealous, as if to say with some importance, that they might actually matter. The Quiet Man slowly observes the room, almost with a sort of yearning, checking his options maybe?
There is one single girl in the room; she’s sporting a Pink Satin Sash around her waist. Her black dress hugs her tight curves, showing off her beautifully toned body. Her smile radiates from her, extending her warmth throughout the room. Catching the notice of every other pair of eyes, attached or not.
She sits at the bar, alone. She flirts with the bartender shyly, waiting for someone perhaps? Or is she, like the Quiet Man, scoping her options, intent on discovering love this cold New Years Eve?
The group at the bar laughs again, stealing my attention back to them. The man in the stocking hat, which is all too inappropriate for this type of atmosphere, tends to steal the attention for himself. The brim on his stocking cap pulled down around his eyes, hiding his true feelings of loneliness and self distrust. He’s pushing the others for attention; the question is though, is he trying to prove his self worth to himself or to the others? It’s quite possibly both.
Quiet Man gets up and walks around softly, catching the attention of one the staff. He asks when the music will be starting. Is he possibly waiting for a date? Will his quiet manner enable him to meet someone tonight?
There is a piano set up in the far corner of the room, next to the fireplace. The piano is over decorated with burgundies and gold’s, lace and flowers. The haughtiness of the decorations almost takes away from the quiet beauty of the baby grand.
A well dressed man sits; his black undershirt showing beneath his black shirt. Red, pink and purple stripes run vertically up and over his shoulders. The rest of the shirt is covered by a black suit coat. His fingers gracefully caress the keys and he starts to play.
He starts in with a song not many people know; his sharp tenor voice floating across the room, intertwining softly with the chords and arpeggios that his fingers are forming.
The group at the bar seems to have discovered something amusing. The man who has drawn the attention is beaming; his shirt collar quite a bit wider than the norm. Could he possibly be compensating for something unseen; something a bit smaller than he might like to admit?
The attention is drawn back across the room as the music stops; only to be met by somewhat half enthusiastic applause. The pianist introduces himself as Chris; the only person to have somewhat of an identity for the evening, so far.
Chris stands from behind his piano, still hidden behind the beauty of it. He surveys the crowd for requests. I don’t believe he has a set list for this evening, a small detail that encompasses a huge amount of confidence. As if to say, “I can play anything. Bring it,” but in a much more graceful manner.
His fingers start to glide over the keys once again, playing his rendition of some show tune that I had never heard of.
The Quiet Man has moved again; this time to a sofa in front of the soft crackling fire. He sits hunched in the corner closest to the fireplace, the couch sitting perpendicular to the fire, facing a mirror image of itself split by a glass coffee table.
He sets his drink down on the end table to his left. Settling in, he looks about the room inquisitively. He still hasn’t found what he’s been eyeing for all evening. His eyes avoid those of Pink Satin Sash; it’s almost as if he knows that it won’t do him any good to long for something of such beauty, yet he yearns for that contact, that discreet lustful glance.
Chris finishes another song, his spiked hair bouncing just above the sheet music on the piano as he starts another; a Neil Diamond song requested from across the room.
I overhear the Quiet Man attempt to introduce himself to a couple sitting across from him. They seem polite enough but leave him disheveled and broken spirited as they take back their conversation that he so selfishly disrupted in an attempt to be social. He looks disheartened but attempts to strike conversation once again.
The couple across from him looks at him as if they're offended that he would speak to them again. The woman whispers something to her date, possibly her husband? Her left hand is hidden behind the man's back; hiding the only tell tale sign of marriage to be found tonight. The man shyly extends his hand while leaning forward over the glass coffee table and says, "How goes it?"
Charles, as he has so properly called himself, responds quietly, "It goes; just out enjoying the evening."
Charles doesn't look like he enjoying the evening. He hasn't smiled once since I have been watching him. He's been nursing the same drink for the past quarter hour or so, leading me to think he doesn't really drink, or he doesn't want to lose the only companion he has for the evening so quickly.
The couple quickly retreats from Charles, bidding him a quiet goodbye, seemingly bound with judgment of his marital status for the evening.
I wonder why Charles has named himself so. Why not Charlie, or Chaz? Maybe even Chuck? Why would one take such a proper version of themselves?
Charles goes back to cuddling with his drink on the sofa by the fireplace; each sip from the straw almost paralleling the whisper of sweet nothings into a lover's ear.
posted by faitacc0mpli @ 3:42 AM
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