In Providence they drank Sam Adams beer and sang along to Led Zeppelin. It didn’t matter what time of year he returned or how long it had been since he had left, eventually there were two men at the bar suddenly united by this mutual understanding of rock and roll’s timeless monsters. They lip-synched side by side as the radio blasted, one pantomiming guitar, the other drums. The younger man, cropped hair beneath a new tweed hat, turned away from the girl sitting beside him. She looked Italian. Her sunglasses held back her long dark hair. Hesitant and shy, she sang to herself beside the two men who were becoming increasingly intoxicated by the beer and the sound of their own voices.

It was always like this. The waitress wrapped her head with a white bandana adorned with skulls. What’ll you have? She was too young to be talking like that and he only wanted coffee.

A middle-aged white man was setting up speakers beside a slightly elevated stage in the corner. Surely, he was playing the blues. All the signs said there would be blues that night. And who could say that they weren’t the real blues? They wouldn’t sound like Skip James or John Lee Hooker, no, but the way he clumsily carried the speaker, dressed in crumpled polo shirt and sagging jeans, yes!, these must be the blues. Who can place judgment on the way another expresses their isolation and longing?

A woman sat with her laptop, aimlessly looking at Facebook. The man in the tweed hat ordered another Sammy. Zeppelin gave way to Eddie Money. The older of the two men, now rolling peanuts into his mouth from the bottom of his palm, nodded unconvincingly. You can’t hold onto the feeling. You can touch it, but only for a moment.

The waitress brought him a coffee. Kinda gloomy out there. Yeah, the whole city feels gray. Sometimes things just are that way. You want something sweet? I think you do. We have the best donuts in the town. Of course he did. He asked for the one that she liked best.