Late-night bow, Tokaji, and a cigarette

I've set a Smetana record spinning, the 1873 Vuillaume leaning against the chair like an honest companion. Tokaji breathes warm in the glass; a Sobranie after dinner curls smoke into the attic rafters. Bach, Liszt and Rachmaninoff — the cats, not the composers — have already claimed the warmest patch of floor.

I've been tracing Akhmatova's lines in Russian; they sit against the ribs tonight, small anchors. Longing takes the shape of wanting someone who can be still, who attends without filling the room — attention as a rare instrument. If you know how to listen, bring patience and an old coat; tea, or Tokaji, will be ready.