Crimson, mauve lights, flicker on smooth nineteenth century stone and converse in round whirlpools. The interval. A cello is off-key, eager to catch the racy strum and leg-kick of the bassplayer. Or is that just the distorted sound of Jazz? Eager mouths, alive with applaud, contort into triangles and squares in round stained glass windows. Hundreds of guts wreathe with laughter. And the white suited joker, mic taller than him, his hands reaching up, exhales his final line, his brow gaped in wonder at their very wonder of him. And I can feel the musk air that has likely never seen light, seep through the long varnished seating and into my bare thighs, letting out a shudder just like the kick of ginger root beer that catches my tonsils, my breath. I swallow, knowing that in this very minute, this moment, the world is sparkling and thriving and alive. I swallow, unaware we have escaped the gunshots, the explosives, the blades, only three miles away, or thereabouts, at London Bridge.