ALL THAT JAZZ
He threw me into a damp, dank shed – tossed aside, abandoned. Curves, sunburst hues, ebony statuesque neck forgotten: sophisticated tones, rich bass voice rejected.
The door opens; squeals in pain. Light fills the dark shed, sunbeams glinting on my fiery reds, burnished ambers.
He picks me up, glances at me absently; ambivalently plays a couple of discordant notes. Shivers run through my curvaceous body, from my long slim neck to my machine heads, dull gold, unpolished –Ah! I have not been touched in so long.
Suddenly, in one violent movement, he shoves me, unceremoniously, into a velvet-lined case. I should feel warm, cosy, yet I cower in misery as the case is jammed shut.
I recall times when he loved me. Memories flood in – of bright lights, applause, adulation, fingers running smoothly up and down my sturdy strings –– slapping my stunning, vibrating body to sounds of exquisite jazz.
He hauls me indoors; sets me down beside the draughty door.
I jump as the doorbell rings. The door opens: a voice – jovial:
“The Jazz Bass? I’ve come to try it?”
My case opens with a click.
“Look at you, baby!”
I gaze into nut-brown, amazed eyes.
The stranger lifts me; fondles, caresses; tunes me, pressing me to his chest. He plays me beautifully – a few chords here; the odd riff there; a set of harmonics for good measure.
© Sheila Newton 2010
…and here she is!