I was walking downtown at night and turned left into a bar that had several feet of pavement between the street-facing walls and the door. When I turned, I passed in front of a small
band: two men and one woman. The woman was pale, with a heart-shaped face and dark
sunglasses. She had a pageboy haircut, a black beret, and a sad, clear voice. I noticed that as soon as she finished singing she would press her face into the chest of one of the bandmates, like she couldn't face the world if she wasn't singing.
There was a room behind the bar section, and I went there to do something - make a phone call? An amazingly massive man, with a beard and also in sunglasses, sat like Jabba the Hutt in the middle of the floor. To his left were a few open pizza boxes, with the pizza still there. In one of the boxes was a sign that said "The contents of this box are incomplete. We needed part of it to take the plane from London to Algiers." (I have no idea).
I glanced at him several times. We were the only ones in the room. He made no sound, nor did he move. It was a tad awkward.
And, of course, on the way out, I saw the woman sing and press her face into her bandmate's chest again.