In the lee of an old wooden dock with barnacled pilings, fishing boats bobbed at anchor.
That’s it. That’s the bit in the song. The gulp catches my breath. Staring out the windscreen and emotion spills from me and fogs the glass.
As the sun set, a man took a seat at a truncated keyboard. A 60-key piano that barely fitted in the space, jammed between the door and a window. With minimal fanfare he played for the few of us there.
I couldn’t determine his age. Maybe thirty. Maybe sixty. Weathered, muscled and lean.
When my age reached a suffix of teen, I worked after school. Had disposable income. Or rather, had income, and disposed of it. Spent it on records, then cassettes and a Walkman.