Microfiction
The Jazz Guitarist No One Listened To
Every Friday Night
It was Friday evening. Paul grabbed his guitar and went to The French Bistro, an upscale restaurant located in the downtown entertainment district.
Paul knew the drill. He would play solo jazz guitar to set the mood for date night. The clientele would be well-off. He also knew he would be ignored for the most part. No one would really listen to him play. They would eat their overpriced meals and talk.
It was discouraging, but it helped pay the rent. And it beat working as a waiter. Although, waiters usually earned more than he did.
There was one friendly server who always stopped by to say how much she enjoyed Paul’s playing. She seemed sincere, and Paul appreciated it. Sadly, for Paul, she was already married.
One evening, a group of businesspeople came in. Paul didn’t like these types of parties. They were usually loud and spent the evening talking about business.
Paul preferred the lovers. He felt like his playing had a small part in their romance.
Tonight’s group turned out to be financial planners. They talked about investing for hours. Paul listened.
