Voices on the Wind Obscure Voices
Caffeinated Blues by CJ Muchhala He stalks a lady nightly in the landscape of her dreams, this stranger. Mornings they eat at the Nighthawks Grill-- the lady with coiled hair, him with the coal black eyes--elbows in proximity a dance of sorts between padded stools that never ever touch. Doralee the waitress pours her a cuppa joe, ignores the silence played out every morning at six-fifteen between those two although he slices daily through the yellow yellow centers of his over-easy eggs. Doralee leans with folded arms against the jukebox, does a slow pelvic tilt to the blues harp, waiting for Sonny Boy to come striding through the papered, fly-specked wall wailing ‘bout love gone bad. The dance of the elbows winds down, the harp fades to a lonesome-sounding moan, and a moan sidles out the door with him, this stranger who stalks a lady between padded stools that never ever touch.