A Touch of the Past
It’s been a while. Stories have swirled through my head but never made it to the keyboard. It’s as if the virgin territory of my new study forebodes me. It’s time to break this cherry.
Light a cigarette, Joyce, and get going.
I was nineteen, and I was in love—not with a man, but with a voice. Lou Rawls owned it. It was his, but I embraced it.
Play him as I write.
When he came to Boston, I took every chance I could to listen to him. It was in a dark, dusty little joint in the underbelly of a building on Boylston Street. It was small and cozy. Probably not the venue for which he was hoping.
I had been able to get there for a few nights, but funds were running tight.
Wait—the music stopped:
Ahhhh—back to the story.
There was only one way I’d…
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