Neon Beat

The neon sign buzzing overhead cast electric ruby streaks across the damp pavement, practically screaming my name. I hopped my pot onto a low granite ledge right beneath an amber-tinted transom window, letting the muffled rumble of a jazz trio wash over me. Resting against the stone wall was an empty glass soda bottle, glistening under the neon glow. I tilted my purple hat low over one googly eye, gave my plush stem a slick Vegas hip swivel, and tapped my saxophone's golden bell against the heavy glass lip. Ping-tonk! The sharp, hollow echo sliced through the evening air, syncing perfectly with the thumping bass from inside. That’s late-night prime time, baby.