Saul darted his eyes to the side, eyeing the glass of whisky sitting untouched on the coffee table. The sight alone made him realise that he was sober, too sober, to be where he was.
"You know what my father once told me?" said the man standing beside him, grinning to himself.
He stared at him sidelong, then looked straight ahead. The man had been trying to think of something to say for the past five minutes, Saul didn't even have to see his face. The nervous energy the guy gave told him all about his intentions, he was only sorry that he had to tear his attention away fom the alcohol. But then again he also didn't want to know what his father had told him, he's had about enough talk about the man already.
But he shifted in his seat and shrugged his shoulders, indulging the man. It was no use being bitter and he thought he finally understood that, but maybe he was just being generous on account of the circumstances.
"He told me, 'John, the music is what's important. Who the artist is, is the least of our concerns.'" he shook his head, a stray gray mesh of hair falling in his face. "Can you believe that?"
The man now known as John shook his head again, and finally followed the Saul's line of sight, bending to swipe the whisky glass off the table. Startling Saul out of his trance with the thing. John grimaced upon inspection. He gestured at Saul, asking if it was his. He shook his head and said:
"I don't drink." Though he desperately wished he could. He stared at the ring of water on the table, watching John in his peripheral.
John turned the glass in his hands in abandon and sat down on the arm chair across from him.
"Ghastly thing alcohol. Always hated the taste of it myself, evil never tastes as good as people want it to, " John said.
Saul only grunted in reply, he didn't bother indulging him anymore than he had.
"... None of our concern," He said, repeating his earlier statement. "Well he wasn't a very smart man, and I can't consider myself too keen on the arts, especially not back then, but that was the most absurd thing I've heard him say when I was a child."
Saul furrowed his brow at this. "Sounds like a fine statement to me. Can't expect people to remember every guy who wrote a piece of music. Especially classical. They all sound the same."
John shook his head again and chuckled smugly. Earning a grimace from Saul, making him regret he ever said anything. "I don't quite think that was his point, rather, that the emotion you garner from the piece is what matters. The knowledge of the artist is the least of the listeners concerns. I understood what he meant, but I find it rather obtuse to even suggest the writer doesn't deserve at least a bit of credit for the emotion he makes the listener feel. Repaying them with their names being known is a small price to pay, don't you think so?"
Saul didn't respond. He just nodded and went off staring at something else, hoping he'd get the message. At some point he turned to look at his watch. Seven thirty. A long silence filled the room, and soft clinking of ice against glass began.
-
Full disclosure there is more to this, but I got tired of editing this in the hopes of giving life and/or more meaning to it. It's a dead story, and I want it to stay dead. So I'm publishing it and cutting off the nonesense added that made me think it gave more substance to force myself to give this one up. Good night sweet prince. (Man I'm really bad at attempting long stories.)
