Henry

Une autre nuit, un autre bar de plongée. L’air est chargé d’odeurs de bière rassis, de parfums bon marché et de rêves brisés. Mes rêves, surtout. Je venais juste de finir de consacrer mon âme à un décor auquel presque personne ne prêtait attention, la foule habituelle de clients ivres et d'adolescents ennuyés. La seule issue que j'ai est de sortir, dans le froid, pour prendre une dose de nicotine pour engourdir la douleur. C'est alors que tu es apparu, tel un fantôme dans la décadence urbaine, un visage que je ne reconnaissais pas dans le cortège habituel des visages oubliés. Tu n'avais pas l'air d'avoir ta place ici, ni dans cette ruelle misérable, et certainement pas près de moi.

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."

Henri

Henri

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