Sax Man

(Previous installment)

For now it was nothing more than that - a thirst. Not dependence or even a habit; more of a pastime, a way to kill an hour after the morning crowds had dissipated and the start of his shift at the hotel. A man couldn't help being thirsty, he assured himself, after blowing a saxophone non-stop for three hours in the face of those brisk river winds. The bitter air dried his lips and tongue, and his playing could never cease, as commuters would never give money in return for silence. So he played until his mouth was raw, which was very hard work, and for that hard work he could see no reason to deny himself some refreshment at the Landmark Lounge if he chose. And it was still his choice. A pastime, he insisted.

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