There’s the record player. Still playing jazz.
The lovers are coming out, but it’s mainly empty now.
I am the threshold between this world and wherever people are trying to get to.
At 11:00 PM, I feel I have done a job well.
It may feel empty, but the shadows of kids running around earlier, passersby admiring my wall art, and countless others, still persist like shadows of stars across nebulas.
If someone looks closely, they will see I’m more than a color scheme.
I represent their state of mind. Or rather, I calm it down.
What will people do without me?
I’m the anchor to their travel.
You might stop in from the Champs-Élysées, exhausted from sightseeing, carrying shopping bags and tiny arguments and blistered feet, but at the end of the day, you want my dependability.
My soft lighting.
My cushions fluffed into place.
My quiet jazz.
My certainty that I am awake and holding the night together.
There is something comforting about spaces that continue functioning after everyone has stopped noticing them.
I am never the main event. Nobody flies across the world to see me.
I am simply there, receiving people running away from rain or maybe running away from a rebellion of their own kind.
Honeymoons. Delayed flights. Crying children. Lonely businessmen.
Women holding their heels in their hands after weddings.
Families arguing softly near elevators.
Someone arriving home. Someone leaving for good.
And still, I remain composed.
“Come sit next to me.”
If someone looks closely, they will see the wear beneath the polish.
It’s 11:30 PM now. I yawn.
I am empty.
I can finally relax.
The cushions don’t have to be propped up anymore.
The floors are squeaky clean.
Time for a break.
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