Death

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They must be in love, I thought, watching the couple as they danced to a scratchy tune on the Victrola. It was late, and the place was empty but for us, the dancers, and a waiter at the front entrance, trolling for customers. He’d gotten bored refilling my wineglass, so I poured the last of the vino myself and listened to the song. Again, since it was the only record in the joint.

“Who’s that singing, Kaz?”

“Carlo Buti. Very popular in Italy. Billy, are you listening to me?”

“Sure. Guy named Carlo Buti. What’s the song about?” I could count on Kaz to know stuff like this. He was smart in seven languages, but he didn’t know everything, like when to mind his own business. He’d been yammering at me for the past hour, and I’d been doing my best not to pay him any mind.

“He is singing to his lover,” Kaz said, leaning back and listening. “Love is beautiful when he is near her. It makes him dream, it makes him tremble. The usual romanticisms.”

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