“One, two, three. One, two, three.” He kept his beat in time hitting the snare and bass drum in repetition. Looking across the room to Johnnie who was strumming wildly on the old guitar. It was made of red oak and was halftuned. Missing one string it couldn’t play all the songs but got close enough. He smiled at his old friend, his hair greying and the lines on his face lifted in joy at this old act of melody and clashing sounds. Juliette was on the bass guitar, her hair low over her neck as she slowly kept pace. The trio of Oxford Hall, back together again, performing their hits.
For absolutely no one.
They played, and smiled. They played, and drank old beer found by a truckload off highway ten. They played and made new songs. Songs about hate, and love, and hunger, and hope. Sometimes they couldn’t remember the lyrics. So they made new ones.
“One, two, three. One, two, three.”
A concert at the end of the world.
For the three of them.