The Twilight Bar
She looked at me and there I could see in her eyes a deep penetrating something. I wish I could explain what I saw in those eyes. Darkness in the eyes that played hide and seek with light. Sadness in those two pools that took away all the attention from her made-up face and her purple smile pasted on her oh-so-pink lips. Yes. That is what I saw in her eyes. Darkness and sadness. And pain too. A pain intensely tangible. A silent pain that spilled from those eyes, a waterless spilling. More like whiffs of air reaching out from her eyes to mine. Or sparks flying from hers to mine.
She was dressed in a carefully ripped casual blue jeans and a tube top that left her navel exposed. A black snake sat coiled around her navel, its hood disappearing under the top. Except the tattoo, there was no adornment on her body. Her wrists, toes, ears, all bare and basic. As if seeking attention through absences. Her hair were a shade of black. A velvety secret shade of black. Like dark winding rivulets, they fell on her back, touching her waist.
And then there was the guitar. Her sole possession. And pouring out from it was a melancholic tune. Dense in its pain, filling up the room like a hundred rodents let loose, running helter-skelter, claiming nooks and corners of the room. Of our souls. In a strange way, in that house of forbidden pleasures, where naked desires assumed a shrouded dignity, the only thing truly unacceptable was pain gushing forth from her guitar. It was the most unwanted presence in that room. Perhaps that’s why, as she played her guitar, she kept her eyes closed. Shutting out the resistance.
And as she played on, her eyes remained shut. It was only after the tune was done that she opened them, looking straight at me, peering into mine as if by such a cosmic serendipity that I felt an electrifying jolt. A current that passed between us. Like a moment’s epiphany, before she shut them again. Blinding herself to her surroundings, her guitar now lying limp on her lap.
An old man, dressed in clothes equally shabby, stepped forward from the crowd mulling about, taking her by hand. Her body gave no hint of surprise, not a sliver of struggle as she let the old man take her by her hand and lead her through one of the doors into the deeper crevices of the house, her eyes all the while firmly shut. Resolutely shut.
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