Creak. Tap, tap, tap. Creak. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythm of jazz always seeps nightly into Jamie's footsteps.

The smell of rust and sewer cloud the leaking pipes above. Brick walls are tarnished with fumes and gathering dirt. The alleyway is lit only by the dim flicker of Teresa's Café sign. Here was Jamie's place. Here was Jamie's life.

Unemployed? No. Unhoused? Maybe, but maybe not. Jamie's secret dumpster home was cozy, warm, and disgusting. More or less it had more character than any other "home" on the street. And it was next to Teresa's, so all was well.

Or so he hoped. Cold reality sometimes nipped Jamie in the trembling night.

Did I say trembling? I meant treble clef. Jamie was a keen saxophonist. He often filled Teresa's Café with swelling sounds of loneliness, however sometimes he threw a little funk in here and there. He blows through the reed for relief, not just [for] music. All that coffee makes him shake time to time. He drinks so much of the stuff that caffeine practically runs through his veins. Heck, he probably sweats it, too.

Creak. Tap, tap, tap. Creak. Tap, tap, tap. The rhythm of jazz always seeps nightly into Jamie's footsteps.