Gemotions

He sat in the dimly lit jazz club, nursing a scotch, as the saxophonist launched into his composition. The bandleader had claimed it was a “tribute night,” and that night it was his turn. He straightened in his chair, a slow smile creeping across his face. He’d written this piece, years ago, fueled by heartbreak and cheap whiskey. Now it was being interpreted by seasoned professionals.

He leaned back, closing his eyes briefly as the music swelled. The sax player was good, he had to admit. But he knew the subtleties of the piece. He knew the hidden notes, the underlying meanings. He took another sip of his drink and smiled to himself, as if the world were somehow brighter. He was the architect of this moment.