The church stood silent and empty when Michael lugged his bass in on Monday morning. Cut flowers vied with Mr. Sheen and Brasso in an assault on his sense of smell as he walked down the red-carpeted aisle. Friendly saints smiled down upon him from stained glass windows to his left and right, and ahead a bloke that Michael assumed was St. John stretched out his hands in welcome from the window behind the altar.
Michael extracted his double bass from its case, propping it up against one of the choir stalls before removing his coat, and then his Rolex. Tucking the watch into an inside pocket, he hung his coat over the lectern. That eagle always creeped him out; he didn’t want it watching his first performance since the accident.
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