Tokaji, a Vuillaume, and the window
Smetana on a battered vinyl, the violin line folding into the attic dusk. Tokaji sipped slowly; a Sobranie rests in the ashtray like a punctuation mark, while Mendelssohn, Clara and Rachmaninoff find the warmest spot on my lap.
The 1873 Vuillaume sits on the chair as if waiting for a return bow, its varnish catching the streetlight. There's room tonight for a companion who knows silence as an art — a man twice my age who will sit and not try to fill the air, perhaps reading Akhmatova while the candles gutter. That thought makes the Tokaji taste even older, and the city softer.
The 1873 Vuillaume sits on the chair as if waiting for a return bow, its varnish catching the streetlight. There's room tonight for a companion who knows silence as an art — a man twice my age who will sit and not try to fill the air, perhaps reading Akhmatova while the candles gutter. That thought makes the Tokaji taste even older, and the city softer.
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