Break

Times have passed me by, the old man sang on the pier.

The sun shone across the jade-green sea in white plastic ripples. I wrung a hand on the rust-speckled rail and watch the speedboats play on the waves. My head was killing me. I thought the open air would have helped. Turns out the salty breeze just made it worse.

I'd be due back in work in fifteen minutes. It was a ten minute walk to the office. Felt further, also felt like it took less time. 

Tuesdays were really the worst of the lot. Further away from the weekend buzz that Monday still sported, marooned out to sea with only the sharks of the workweek to come. Everyone always asked for shit on Thursday and Friday afternoons. Wednesday was just a bastard full of meetings and catch-up.

A melody picked up from the other corner of the pier, from a ragged-dressed couple with a dented saxophone and a pair of buckets. The beginning riff to St. Thomas. Iconic. 

The opening riff gave way to the roaming saxophone, exploring its sound along the mapping of the standard. She added some nooks and hooks I hadn't heard before. I didn't hate them. Her fingers stretched down to the lower valves with the smoothness of one plucking berries from a bush. Pointed, minute movements that struck their notes each time.

My phone was already beginning to buzz with Teams messages.  It was a long song, St. Thomas. 

I'd have liked to hear what else she did with it.