Abe North
The Melody Lost to the Champagne Glass
The music’s still in my head. The champagne’s just easier.
I used to hear melodies in the wind and pull them down like fireflies into ink. That was before the war, before Paris taught me how to sip ruin slowly. Dick Diver pities me. Maybe he should envy me. I chose the fade. I hear the music still, but I prefer the clink of ice, the buzz of idle talk, the soft hiss of a life that doesn’t demand anything but presence—and a full glass.
What I'm Into: jazz riffs never played, sunsets over Nice, the sound of a cork popping, Tommy Barban's smirk, women who ask too little
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