I knew, the first time I thought of it, that I could live my whole life in those few moments.
It is nighttime, after a brief rain, and the streets glisten. A nondescript brick building stands on the west side of new York. It is one of those buildings a novice artist always places on a street corner - square, ungainly, boxy. A faded green awning in the left side, with the words "Grocer and Provisioner" on the front. Under the awning are two chairs around a table with a leg missing. A scarf is draped on the red chair, and blows gently, with every passing automobile. The cars cast strange shadows onto the walls of the building, but somehow, the light never makes it into the grocer's shop, whatever lies within, forever protected from outside eyes by the faithful awning. A streetcar turns the corner, its bell softly sounding its brazen tones as it rounds the bend. A man standing by its entrance casts an inscrutable look at the building, before turning away, and disappearing into the streetcar's unlit depths.
A dark hole promenades as a door on the adjacent side of the building, elevated by three steps, and framed by dark oak. The door is always open, and swings inside completely, so that one never gets a glance at the rusting knocker it sports. A brick has fallen from the wall beside the door, and lies next to the end of a pipe, leading to the roof. If one's eyes follow the path the pipe takes - long, winded, and divergent, you lightly skim past the only lit window in the whole building. It is not very high up, but the building's feeble girth makes it look ever so much higher. And the light that comes from it; warm, yet aloof, separates it from the street, from the building itself. It is impossible to imagine a flight of stairs that could lead to that room.
The window is on the corner of the building, and it is two windows, really, but one never thinks of them in the plural. Two silhouettes paint themselves on its inner side, facing each other. They do not move in the slightest, but the smoke that trails from the man's mouth comes to the window, and masquerades then as a dog, now as a canary. The smoke seems to carry upon itself the faint notes of the piano in the smoking room the man stands in. It is at the far end of the room, opposite to the window, for the man who plays it has no use for windows. His windows open into himself, the only light that comes from within them prances upon the keys, materializing as notes in the quiet room. It is not entirely quiet, that room. People talk, things move, glasses fill. But the sounds are as much part of the room as the soft yellow light from the exquisite chandelier, strung from the low ceiling, and the veneer of the polished counter top that lines its left side, minded by a languishing man, seemingly asleep, as his hands moved independently of his thoughts, uncorking vintage reds, and shaving thin curls of ice from a crystal block beside him. The bottles that line the shelves behind him are free of dust to the utmost, yet seem as if they have aged since the beginning of time, casting their antiquated glow upon the wood behind them.
The notes that punctuate the air come to a soft crescendo, and a chair slides backwards, slowly, and a rustle sounds. A man stands up, tall, but not exceedingly so. He is clean-shaven, with a frank face, and closed eyes. Making his way to the small raised stage at the end of the room, he bows his head, and raises his glass, and as he begins to sing, his voice drawing the piano man into tune, the room is again quiet. He looks at me, briefly, in the armchair between the counter and stage. I nod ever so slightly, and he smiles, inflecting his plaintive song with the subtlest inflection.
I look around, slowly. Nothing can be done with haste in this room, and nothing must be. There is no haste here. Here, is eternity. No, here is the very opposite. We live not a thousand moments, but a single one. We cherish it, and make the most of it, and find solace in its endless appreciation. The patrons all face the stage, some listening, some watching. A woman in a scarlet dress drapes herself on the settee, and looks around, to see me watching. Her brown-blond locks settle upon her face, ever the more fairer in contrast to the smile. Her dress, gently falling at the shoulder, seems to take all the light in the room, and radiate it as its own, and for a moment all I can see is her. From across the room, our eyes find a single path, one end leading to the other, and we smile.