Evening Tokaji and softer bow strokes

I let a recording of Shostakovich slip on — the slow movements taste of iron and snow — while Tokaji breathes in the glass. The 1873 Vuillaume rests on the chair like a third self; Stravinsky, one of three composer-cats, claims the case and purrs through the measures. My left hand traces a phrase before the head catches up.

After dinner, a Sobranie and Akhmatova in Russian fold the room smaller. There remains a soft hunger for company that knows how to sit: a man twice my age who has done his own work, who can be quiet beside me while the candles run down and the music keeps telling me what to do.