Scarf on a jump window

Grey at the temples is just cargo showing through the paint job. I don't dye it. Lounge lights already do enough lying for everybody who wants a younger story. Scarf's the same one from a hundred Spire nights — dark, a little frayed where the strap of the case rubs, still better than leaving your throat bare when the AC forgets what human lungs asked for. Weathered black leather. Custom twelve-string with the wide headstock. That's the whole uniform. No costume change between sets.

Jump window slipped two hours. Board flashed green like it was proud of the inconvenience. We sat with the case between our boots and argued about nothing important — tempo, tip jars, whether the next berth still pours honest or waters the rye and calls it atmosphere. That's the Docklight circuit: you wait like professionals and pretend the waiting is part of the song, because if you don't, the waiting eats you.

When the call finally came I almost left the scarf on the glass. Habit. Marker. Proof somebody stayed long enough to fog a window and mean it. Took it with me instead. Songs travel whether you pack them or not. Soft things should too. If the next lounge is colder, at least my throat won't be.