Jack walked into the bar the sailor had pointed to, but the sound of the music up close stopped him at the door, his feet not bothering to respond.  From outside, it was hard to really comprehend it all, but without the safety net, he found himself tumbling into a world of sounds. He'd heard of jazz, but the inkling that the stories had given him weren't nearly enough to prepare him for this.   He heard a voice vaguely closer to him than the others, but it wasn't until he felt the tap on his shoulder that he realized a young woman was talking to him. He turned slowly, taking a moment to surface from the flood that the band created in his ears. Something about sitting down was said, so she promptly pushed him into a chair, gave a nod to the bartender, and a glass was put in front of him. The taste was far less than pleasant, but he told himself he'd get used to it.   As the band stopped, he pounced on them, starving to speak to the creators of that noise. They spoke for a while, and finally he was asked where he'd come from. Enough glasses had been put in front of him by then to make it hard not to speak.

   He talked about the town, or what was left after the storm. He talked about his parents, their expectations, and the pretty young woman that he married. It would all be okay, they said. You're doing what you should be. He talked about how he built their house, how he saved for the ring, how they had created life, just as they were supposed to. C'est si bon, they said, though he didn't understand what it meant.

    Then he talked about the sickness in the town, how his wife felt a bit faint the day before. He talked about how he came home on a nice afternoon and saw the blood that stained the floor, that had stained the house. He saw where his wife used to be, how she still walked and talked, but wasn't alive. She told him about how she missed her husband, how he walked and talked, but wasn't alive. It's all gone, he said.

    He talked about the fire that took the house he built. How she had started it in an argument, or at least, that's what he remembered. That fire that drove him onto that boat, and the boat that sailed him here. One more drink, they said.