...A glass clinks by the bar. His low throaty voice reverberates round the room to the eerie swell of the violins and the abrupt crechendo that leaves a void hanging in the air where the voices once chattered. He looks deep into the crowd as he pauses briefly between verses, the strings howl, distorted slightly by the speakers and a bead of sweat rolls slowly down his temple stopping at the damp curl of hair by his ear. His brow is contorted with the violent sorrow he spits into the words as his eyes search the faces before him.
In the crowd stands a woman, her face reflecting the pain of the lyrics as she stares, mouth ajar at him on the stage. Her fingers are twined round her glass, the ice long since melted away and a vivid crecent of lemon mirroring the arc of pale lipstick interrupting the rim. The man next toher is frowning. Teeth glinting behind thin lips, pulled taut in a snarl. A vein, swollen and bulbous, stands in relief against his thick, red neck and the shine on his greased back hair a streak of blue in the dim light thrown out from the screen. His hand quivers and narrow, reptilian eyes brood as on stage the man extends his arm and points theatrically at the woman. The big mans eye twitches and he stiffens. The last verse and with reddenedeyes the singer raises his hand, mimicing pressing his face against a window and closes his eyes. He gasps suddenly as he gulps for breath for thefinale which erupts a torrent of emotion blasts through the speakers as his high hopeless scream is drowned by the battling strings of the fraught coda and he shrins back into the neck of his jacket, head bowed, microphone hanging limp from its cord in his hand as he stands, swaying slowly to the fading music until silence invades the room and every eye is on him waiting, waiting for something to happen. Their morbid curiosity is left unfulfilled as he lifts his head and looks once more at the woman. With a crack the big man slams his glass on the table, turns and stalks out, oblivious to the wet drink stain slowly speading over his sleeve. She stands there in this forced silence and a screech of feedback punctuates the still air with its plaintive exclamation.
'Thank you! Can we all have a big hand for Michael!' The voice of the M.C. is distant in the oppression of the room until the first tentative murmer begins and soon all is well again. Michael steps down from the stage and once more disappears into the heaving, muttering crowd, filling dead space between the clusters of people, noticed only by the woman standing at the table who softly sighs and pushes through the bodies towards the door, a smile just visible on her lips.