The quality in a saxophone is that it can do alone what other instruments can't.
In one squeak you've got the blues. In another a jilted lover's heels bopping away into a cross-bones jazz. He liked it that way. Solo. Was the hobo's thing to be.

He was leaning against the front door, a toe up holding the door wide, as he shook his head and breathed out the shrill horn of the Sax. He grinned as he did so, eyes half mast as his fingers rode up and down that golden spine, his body arched forward, bent over into the full cheeked slow expel of air pockets. Heavy coats and framed photographs cast in neon light in a puddle on the road.

So, ya know, how the Sax goes. Comes from no place special, just a man and a song.

And now, with feeling!


He stood straight and picked up the notch, thatta one and two, long strides towards the bar, and finally the stage, where he stood at its side, in its shadow, and blared gusto through the hip-shaking tempo. He looked out over the small crowd at finishing, and bowed, an impish smile lighting up the clear, if sad, gray of his gaze.

A sudden grin briefly touched his lips as he lowered the Sax in a cradle between oar length arms and he bowed his head to the sensuous female before him.


"Welcome to the saxophone, Lass"

The grin appeared faintly again, and with one long knee he bent and took himself up in a bend to the stage itself, before her.

"The name is Morsham, and you would be?"


A friendly glint in those eyes, as he looked within her gold. Nothin' was more heart swellin to a lone musicman than someone who felt what you did in the music. It spoke the things that no one said. It reminded you of your favourite places and people. He thought to himself "I wonder what places and people are hangin' on behind those golden eyes" , a hand leaving the coppery curve in his arms, to take her fingers in greeting.

If he was paler, his own being flattered may have risen to cheeks. Compliments he did not suffer well.

"Why thank you, Aubri. That means somethin' I'd say, comin' from the daughter of a club owner" and he followed it with a large smile, not flinching at the irony of his once owning his own, upon a time, in them days of yore, but he smiled and smiled, flashing teeth and mirth, and his eyes left hers, to kiss the back of her hand, his stubbled-chin grazing her knuckles. She smelt of pastries. Fresh water. Sweet things. Fields in the chill of night, all these traits he dually noted.


"But tell me", he continued, lowering her hand and letting it go only when it was by her hip, he was a gentle man, with gentle actions. "You have no musicians lured here?"

He seemed utterly shocked, genuinely bemused by that little old fact. He furrowed his brows, but the frown never creased his smile, as he tilted his head in curiousity. She sure didn't look like a fixture of any club, but then, he didn't neither, and he quite relished anyone different, they were all the more interesting.

A slow, considering nod, he stretched himself back down and sat beside her, kinda leaning, resting the saxophone beside him, and then his attention was all hers.

"That is a good thing to know, lass. I might wander in a few times more. How about that?"


He lifted his brows and smiled.


"Are you musical? Or does your own talent rest elsewhere, for your golden eyes give nothing away..."

He said softly, smiling at her with a kind regard. He couldn't pick her. Singer? Dancer? Poet?

He lowered his gaze to her leg, from where the chitter of bells had arisen.

"Ahhhh" he mused, stroking his chin.

"You're a gypsy, enchanting the fire..."


He chuckled and looked across the room.

"My friends would like that. That is If my a supposin' is right, Miss Aubri"

His eyes returned, and he relaxed, crossing his feet at the ankles.