wooden box

He started listening to Dexter Gordon after he'd seen him a movie during a lonely time in his life. He didn't remember the name of the movie, but he was affected by Gordon's utter elegant cool. Regal cool, with his deep, pained voice of life. He wished he'd been black and raw cool like Dexter. He wished he could caress the emotions out like him. He bought a harmonica because he could not afford a saxophone and would play it in the bathroom when no one was home. It worked, for a time.
Now in his fifties, he was used to being alone. He no longer felt lonely. He'd surrendered those emotions or they'd merely just drifted away. He existed, that was enough at this point. He played the harmonica twice a year on significant dates, then returned the instrument to a wooden box he'd inherited from his father. His father had kept tie pins, cuff links and old coins in the box. He had kept them for no particular reason, though he had no reason to ever wear them, not did he have a shirt with cuffs even if he did.