"two whiskey and cokes please"

It's the kind of place that wouldn't feel right without the plumes of cigarette smoke curling their way slowly up toward the ceiling. The walls are made purely out of brick, and out of the corner of your eye you notice a slow trickle of water. Your eye follows the trickle up to the top of the curved ceiling, where it's origin is. That, and the brick walls, remind you that you're underground.
The music is jazz. You aren't sure if the music is being improvised or not, but you pretend that it is because it adds to the romance of the place. You never really liked jazz, not until you got to hear it live. You definitely don't experience the passion in the music when it's just being played out of speakers.
You aren't alone.
You're reminded of this when the person you came with gets annoyed at the lack of service and goes to get your drinks. Whiskey and coke for the both of you. The service doesn't bother you, you're still caught up in the story you're making up for this place.
He comes back with your drinks and your attention is drawn away from the dripping on the wall. He starts chatting about religion. No, not really chatting, he starts talking at you about religion. He wants to prove to you that you shouldn't believe in God, that in reality, it's pointless. You're only half listening to what he says. You glance around and see couples of college students everywhere. Boys and boys, girls and girls, boys and girls. They are seemingly engaged in similar conversations and you wonder if anyone is really listening.
Slowly your eyes travel back toward the musicians. He doesn't notice, he's too engaged in the conversation with himself.
You begin to envy the musicians.
You wish that you too could throw all of your emotion into something beautiful. You want to be able to sing out your emotion, and hope that someone will understand what you feel and sing along.
You get lost in the plumes of smoke and the music. You see the sadness in the guitarist's eyes and begin to wonder who he's playing for.
Maybe hes playing to someone who broke his heart, maybe he's playing to someone he lost in that inevitable way of death. Your eyes mirror the sadness in his, and you unconsciously begin to play with him, now only hearing the music from the guitar, now only caring that the person you two are play to is listening and hearing your joint pain. Maybe they'll hear it if you play louder, the pain of two souls instead of just one.
And then you're just an audience member again. Just one of the pretentious college students pretending to care about jazz, arguing about the validity of religion, talking at each other, only loving the sounds of your own voices.
But part of you still feels the pain of that guitarist and you hold on to that, perhaps hoping that he's carrying part of your pain, as you are his. Lessening the burdens of each others hearts.
The music stops and you and your friend decide that it's time to leave. You get up absently, he's still trying to argue that we are all one-in-the-same spirit. You blandly appease the argument as you walk back the the subway. You say that though you see that too, and maybe religion has done a lot in terms of causing wars, it's done good things.
But you're still thinking about the music you played from the guitar, each step is a cord expertly strummed. You know that your friend doesn't really care, he just wants something to get worked up about, a face to talk at, because he's just as lonely as you are. You make plans to go back to the leaky ceiling, to cure your loneliness together, though not saying a word to the other about it.
Next time he'll start in on spirituality vs. religion. All you'll hear is, two whiskey and cokes please, while you lend your heart to the guitarist on stage among the plumes of smoke.