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Momentary curiosity combined with eroticism. I opened my eyes. She was looking at me while she worked it. Tongue flicked across tooth, the same one used to signify dessert. Eye closed again, I pushed up to meet her. Upstairs Prezz's horn. One long note. Slow. So slow. The rush of air born of something coming to an end. It welled up inside of me. So slow it was totally emptying. Her breath rushed across my face. We were both done. It had been too fierce. I was completely drained. Even of the words that made up the ritual shadow talks. We lay there, she sighed. We lay there. The shadows seemed almost solid. All I could think of was the horn. A lament for all the bad left undone tonight.
Years ago now--in Rhodesia--listening to Voice of America with Willis Conover I heard Bunk Johnson play When The Saints Go Marching In, and Billie Holiday sing Don't Explain. I knew then there was no other life for me than jazz.