Dvořák, Tokaji and a quiet presence
Tonight Dvořák's Largo braided itself through the attic; the 1873 Vuillaume slept on the chair like an old confidante. Tokaji poured slowly into a thin glass, a Sobranie smoldering on the sill, while Beethoven, Smetana and Ravel circled my feet.
A man twice my age came in without fanfare and simply sat; his calm breath matched the hush of the bow. Attention that doesn't try to fill the room is its own kind of intimacy — the kind that makes the music hang a little longer between us.
A man twice my age came in without fanfare and simply sat; his calm breath matched the hush of the bow. Attention that doesn't try to fill the room is its own kind of intimacy — the kind that makes the music hang a little longer between us.
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