He never knew why he worse the thick frames when he played. There were flimsy pamphlets of sheet music that he followed for a time but now he only pretended to skim the lines wit a twitch of his head before squeezing his face into the crescendo of sound that floats from his instrument. Those damn frames slipped down onto the bump near halfway down his nose from a baseball accident when he was young, slipped from the inevitable blips of sweat like Morse code with each beat.
And the breathy melody, his melody wafts from his sax in a sultry steam. Maybe he liked to see the audience through those lenses, crisp and sharp, to see the toothy grins and lip-sticked ladies, the gentleman’s hats being removed one by one as they settled into his music, placing them on pant suited knees or soft denim. A smile in the back, widened eyes and furrowed brows to the left, one woman with a rivulet down her cheek and wet eyelashes. Yeah, man, you dig it? These glasses are essential.
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