Play it again….
“Sam, it’s December 1941 in Casablanca. What time is it in New York?”
“Ah … my watch stopped.”
“I bet they’re asleep in New York. I bet they’re asleep all over America. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
Music from the piano.
“What’s that you’re playing?’
“Just a little something I wrote.”
“Stop it. You know what I want to hear.”
“But—”
“You played it for her. You can play it for me. If she can stand it, so I can.”
“But Boss, I played it for you last night.”
“Play it, again.”
“But Boss, I played it for you last night and she didn’t come.”
“She’ll be back, I know it.” He slugs down another drink. He’s had so many, he doesn’t remember what it is.
“But Boss, I played it before and she didn’t come.”
“As Time Goes By” rises up from the upright piano. It is a ghost in the room, rattling the chains of cords and notes. It rattles on and on evoking memories and mistakes.
“Sam, it’s December 1941 in Casablanca. What time is it in New York?”
“Ah … my watch stopped.”
“I bet they’re asleep in New York. I bet they’re asleep all over America. Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.”
“Ah … my watch stopped.”
[Editor’s note: with apologies to Casablanca. If you haven’t seen it — what are you waiting on? Now, it’s your turn. What would you write to this photo?]
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