Tuesday nights at the Dorset.
I walk through the door and see that I'm in luck tonight, Purple is there. Anything I need, Purple gets. She's my lucky six, the ace up my sleeve.
The jazz band plays in the corner. They tie the room together with their rythm. Everywhere I look, feet tap and heads bob to the double bass. People close their eyes and smile at the sax solo. People nod wisely, pupils flared, and discuss the guitarist's technique. It's all horse crap, except for the music. The music calls me every week, and every week I answer.
I sit down and Purple tells me everything I need to know. She tells me where I can find Charlie. She tells me where the company does its dirtiest work. She stares me in the eye until I forget why I'm staring back, and tells me not to trust the Scotsman.
I lean back and let the music fill me. I panic at the quiet times, with decisions at the door. But now the music is everywhere and things are looking up, and Purple is still my favourite colour.
