World needs more good, he said, and Qebhet was surprised by the raw edge of vulnerability in his voice. He sounded... a little desperate, a little despairing, like a soldier hunkered down in the trenches of what he knew already to be a losing battle.
Much... is everything alright? She almost asked him then. She was teetering on the question, not sure whether it was prying, when he flashed her another grin and changed the subject to quip about dances, once again the smiling, upbeat Much she'd come to know. Perhaps now wasn't the time.
Still, she squeezed his hand back gentle reassurance as she said, "How about a foxtrot? I remember that one. And the Texas Tommy. Oh— here, it's right up ahead."
At the height of Prohibition, the short stretch of 133rd Street between 7th and Lennox had been at the centre of Harlem's nightlife, teeming with speakeasies and clubs. These days, it was mostly residential, a couple of Gospel churches tucked away among the brownstones, a 24-hour Jamaican takeout place right on the corner. There in front of the restaurant, in the pool of the street lamp, Qebhet alone could see the gleam of spectral instruments and the outlines of translucent figures in sharp pinstripe suits and fedoras.