It was 1920 in the French Quarter, and this was his night.
Or that’s what everyone else had been saying. Edward had holed himself up backstage trying to believe it, stroking his horn back and forth with a rag. He was hoping to distract himself away from the nervousness that was beginning to bubble up in him, because that always came after the shock wore off; and his was still there, thick like cream at the top of a milk bottle. It was choking and irremovable. Even the bright vanity lights in the back of their dressing room, small and stuffy with heat, couldn’t shake his disbelief that the quaint little jazz group he had ushered himself into had actually made it.
He shifted in his seat, the floorboards creaking from his weight. It was oddly silent because he was alone; his bandmates were off to their own devices. He hadn’t noticed until he looked up, so immersed in his thoughts. The strong smell of cologne was beginning to dissipate through the ajar door on the right, replaced by a slight musk and staleness. It was just him alone in this spacious jazz club, holed up in the back of it; and with this realized, he shifted his attention back upon his trumpet, smooth and silvery in the bright light from behind.
He could see his reflection. For a moment, he rubbed vigorously at the spot, mistaking the muddy brown of his hair for some awful smudge; and then he realized it for what it was and stopped.
Edward had gotten his trumpet as translucent and polished as a lady’s vanity mirror sometime during his lapse; his reflection was as clear as if he were looking into the one behind him. And it seemed like everything was the same about him except his situation – dark brown hair, wavy and thick and parted to the left; light mocha skin; and his usual small, round pair of eyeglasses, the silver frames matching the luster of his trumpet. He had pulled on a dress shirt and a grey, button-up vest with green pinstriping to prepare for the performance; and his black suit jacket had been cast aside from the heat, dangling from the back of his chair.
His eyes were a dull, dark brown – not very noticeable – and yet they drew him in as he and his reflection looked intently at each other. His mother had told him they were identical in color, shape, and placement to his grandfather’s; and that was his namesake. His eyes had helped lead him to the anxious and momentous situation he was in now.
Or is a metaphor? 