Evening bow, tobacco and slow Tokaji
Kreisler plays on a crackled record; the 1873 Vuillaume rests against my palm like a familiar scar. Bach, Fauré and Shostakovich—my three cats—have already staked the radiator as their kingdom and purr in time.
A glass of Tokaji moves between my fingers while a Sobranie waits to be coaxed into smoke and the attic window lingers cracked. I prefer a man twice my age who can sit without needing to fill the room, read Akhmatova softly, and simply keep me company as the candles gutter.
A glass of Tokaji moves between my fingers while a Sobranie waits to be coaxed into smoke and the attic window lingers cracked. I prefer a man twice my age who can sit without needing to fill the room, read Akhmatova softly, and simply keep me company as the candles gutter.
Share