Midday Jazz

The improvised piano chords and plucked guitar strings harmonized with the growing warmth in the room, acidic smell of recently microwaved hot and sour soup, and light softly entering shaded windows.

The decor in the graduate student lounge had always been tasteless, but was so thematically consistent, I could not outright dislike it.  It was intentional, if misled.

Hushed conversations were happening at high-top tables, and I imagined myself into a chichi bar at noon.  A place society conversations would happen between birds of a feather friends over sloshing wide rimmed glasses.

The tethers of purpose tugged at my floating thoughts, urging them back to focus.