Body and Soul
Rainy afternoons brought the sound of jazz with them. Samson would watch as droplets trickled against the window, tear-staining the glass. Strangely, the watery substance felt to him like an ignition spark, triggering a sax quartet so unbelievably smooth and melancholy in sound that it could only exist in his imagination.
Suddenly there she was, her chest against his as they swayed to the rhythm…
The burlap sack lay on top of the dresser, where it had stayed for three years, collecting dust. Catching a glimpse of it, Samson grew wretched.
Inheritance; why bother?
When a person you loved is gone, irretrievably, what good is a notebook or a necklace or cash, or whatever else was in that goddamn sack?
He tried to return to his reminiscence, but the rain had vanished as quickly as it came, and the jazz musicians along with it. The immaterial memory of her face drove him near insane.
And at last, he reached for the sack. It couldn’t offer him her reincarnation, but it was tangible. That was something.