![]() ![]() How long had she been coming to the Harmony Café? Not long he was sure of that. If this were the thirties and he had the talent of Jelly Roll Morton or Duke Ellington or one of the other jazz greats, he would write a ballad about her. She was like a woman encased in glass - you could see her more or less clearly but you couldn’t reach her. sorrow and loss? disillusionment? emptiness? yearning? He couldn’t be sure because he could not get close enough to her to judge. Part of its essence was pain, the soul-heavy kind that never eases, never goes away. He’d seen it in a thousand faces other than his own, but never as naked as it was in hers. He knew loneliness every night he slept with it and every day it rode him, burrowed deep, like a tick rides a deer. She was the saddest, loneliest person he’d ever encountered: pure blue, pure lonesome. But it was more than just a name because she was more than just a woman alone. ![]() That was the name he gave her, how he thought of her from the beginning. The devil, I’ll tell you, he’s loneliness. ![]()
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