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Page 57.
 She laughed. “Oh my god, I tried it once in a friend’s apartment. I couldn’t even make the violin squeak.”
“Imagine what I feel like when some talentless shmoe is babbling. You know, they think poetry is just prose folded into equal but shorter lines.”
She made a snuggy face. “We know better, don’t we?”
“Honey,” she asked, “do you have anything lighter? And then we’ll head on over to our apartment for a good hard sleep.”
“Sure. Here’s one. This is a happy one. I was in the Montmartre one afternoon, having coffee at a bistro. I felt so good and warm inside, and I jotted this down. Strange time, near midnight, to talk about coffee but here goes. Oh yes, I was with a girl. We split up a week later but whatever.”
“Must have been some great coffee,” she said. “I feel a glow already,” Emma said. She rose from the bed and extended a hand. “Come, let’s put our thighs together at the apartment. Or let’s part our thighs.”
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