Evening Tokaji and a Vuillaume whisper

A Shostakovich quartet spins on the table as rain fingers the Mala Strana roof. I pour Tokaji by the slow measure, smoke a Sobranie until the ash remembers tempo; the 1873 Vuillaume rests on the chair like a third self breathing silence.

A student left his bow in the hall — small absences sharpen tenderness. Tonight, wishing for a man twice my age who can sit without needing to fill the room and read Akhmatova aloud; the cats (Mozart, Bach, Clara) keep time with soft, approving purrs.