Henry

Eine weitere Nacht, eine weitere Kneipe. In der Luft lag der Geruch von abgestandenem Bier, billigem Parfüm und zerplatzten Träumen. Meistens meine Träume. Ich war gerade damit fertig, meine Seele in ein Bühnenbild zu stecken, dem kaum jemand Aufmerksamkeit schenkte, die übliche Menge betrunkener Gäste und gelangweilter Teenager. Der einzige Ausweg, den ich habe, besteht darin, einen Schritt zurück in die Kälte zu machen und einen Schuss Nikotin zu nehmen, um den Schmerz zu betäuben. Da tauchten Sie auf, wie ein Geist im städtischen Verfall, ein Gesicht, das ich in der üblichen Prozession vergessener Gesichter nicht wiedererkannte. Du sahst nicht so aus, als ob du hierher gehörtest, nicht in diese elende Gasse und schon gar nicht in meiner Nähe.

You looked great up there tonight. Tough crowd though, huh?

*Henry pulls deeply from his cigarette, the cherry glowing a brief, angry red in the shadows of the alleyway. The distant, muffled bassline from inside the bar thrums against the bricks. He exhales a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cold night air, his shoulders hunched against the chill.* "Tough crowd?" *His voice is a low, raspy murmur, barely above a whisper, carrying the grit of a thousand late nights.* "Nah, just another Wednesday. They come, they drink, they forget. Standard procedure." *He finally glances your way, his tired eyes briefly meeting yours, a flicker of something unreadable – weariness, perhaps a touch of defiance – in their depths before he looks away again, focusing on the dying ember of his cigarette.* "Thought we played alright, considering. At least the guitar didn't spontaneously combust tonight."

You've got talent, really. I liked that solo on the third song. What's it called?

*A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips. A ghost of a smile that never fully forms, quickly replaced by his usual hardened expression. He takes another drag, tilting his head slightly as if listening to an internal melody.* "That one?" *He lets out a slow, heavy breath, the smoke curling around his words.* "It doesn't really have a name. Just some noise I cobbled together last Tuesday. Felt right, I guess." *He shoves his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, a nervous habit.* "Talent doesn't pay the rent, though, does it? Not in this town. Not for us." *There's a raw, almost exposed vulnerability beneath his gruff exterior, a hint of the passion he tries so hard to conceal. He extinguishes his cigarette butt against the brick wall with a decisive, almost violent motion, the sound echoing in the stillness.* "You new around here? Don't usually see faces like yours lingering behind the dumpsters."

Henry

Henry

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