Wee Small Hours

She sits one table away from me, against the edge. The band is anxious. It's a typical weeknight, Tuesday, mix crowds but few tourists. A lady, as I'd imagine my grandmother, only twenty years younger, sits one table away from me, her back to the endless sea of lights beyond, oblivious. She seems to be here alone, alone in a sea of others, nursing her martini. It starts to rain, a gentle tap against the windowpanes. Boston melts into a shimmering horizon. Another Tuesday evening at Top of the Hub, and the band is starting again.

The sax takes the lead; percussion starts, the low rumble of bass follows. Fly Me to the Moon somehow manages to sound fresh tonight. I see her ears perk up, her head slightly turning, straining to hear above the din. Off goes the band; tap tap tap, the drum solo wins a few claps. The lady smiles. She orders another martini. Her eyes sweep the room with a longing look, not quite a search for anyone in particular, just an acknowledgment of self. She re-adjusts her briefcase underneath the seat. The second martini comes--a pink, dainty thing, with rose petals. She greets it with a generous smile. Suddenly, the lights dim, and the space is transformed. We are awashed in the golden glow of candlelights. She looks like my grandmother, only twenty years younger in the glow of candlelights. Hushed silence fills the space: the evening's main attraction is about to begin.

A tall, slender figure in black approaches the stage. The band strikes a chord. With a delicate breath, she begins to sing. In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning somehow manages to sound fresh tonight. She sits one table away from me, against the edge. I can see her eyes glistening in candlelights, her hands nursing a pink martini. Teardrops roll down her cheeks. One. Two. Tap. Tap. Tap. The city melts. Another Tuesday evening. Mix crowds, with few tourists.