Thirty Days Of Julia: Day Two

I fiddled with the bass and treble, nudged
the balance left and right. Cohen croaked with
all the romance of a rusty razor
blade. Not the best choice from her haphazard
pile of vinyl I barely resisted
sorting from A to Z. She poured Southern
Comfort in two mismatched glasses, added
splashes of flat lemonade and printed
halos of tapwater on the glass-topped
coffee table. Mitchell, King and Taylor
stared from their sleeves: a triptych of groove-worn
troubadors. Poets of the parlour who
sang wistfully of what was lost before
we even kissed. Lips not yet wet with booze.