lull before closing
There’s a specific chill that I dig. It follows show’s high point. People start to leave. Couples take the coats from off the back of chairs. There’s a low, stated reminder to tip the barkeepers. The artists are still on stage—the set’s not done. And there isn’t some big encore planned—not like some special prize for those who stick it out. Things trail off, musically. Low notes lilt softer into the cooling air like the final sparks thrown from a smoldering fire.
It’s in the moment before the end that I think the real in people shows up. You know? The show is pretty much over. The energy has been spent. Fans have either been made or people have checked out. There’s nothing to be gained from a flashy finish. Things are wrapping up.
It’s a comfortable time.
I liken it to the ride back from a dinner out with someone. There’s not much to be said. And that’s okay. If someone sticks it out in the quiet, they’re there for sure. There’s a friend, I’d say—a partner. They’re not looking to be impressed. They’re not expecting to be entertained.
The comfortable lull’s arrival can’t be rushed. It’s really just a genuine moment that blossoms out of all the noise. And it’s a nice change, I think.