JAZZ: A FLASH FICTION
Jazz music in the car. He had it in his car. We’d go home after playing cards and listen to it. No one I knew liked it except him; elegant old stuff from the 40s or 50s.
He spent a lot of money on clothes too; always looking good.
One time some girls came into the card shop where we played magic the gathering, pokémon, bought painball guns and played other games. They took a look at all the boys and pronounced a one-word verdict: “Ugly.”
“Ugly,” they said, “except for this one,” pointing to Daymon.
It was Asif, another friend of mine, who sent me Daymon’s profile on justusboys, a website – well you know what kind of website. When his profile flashed across the screen, something inside me was frightened, disgusted.
Daymon kept playing cards, and kept coming to the store, but Asif let it be known about him – and the benches around him grew vacant.
Years later, I still think about Daymon – in his new car, full of rare jazz.
I still think about him.
He is dead now.