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And the darkened faces in front hum to themselves: "When you're flirt-ing with another, do you ever think of me." Yes, my tired-faced baron, there's a question. Do you? We, out front, all have our little underworlds in which we live sometimes while music plays and beautiful things come to our eyes. And yours?
This tin-pan alley ballad throbbing liquidly from the strings of your fiddle "When you're flirt-ing with another do you ever think of me?" Of the twenty years, the twenty well-spent years? Of the soul that your fingers captured? Of the dream that took form in your firm wrist? And now the chorus once more. In double stops. In harmonics. With arpeggios thrown in. And once more, largo. Sure and full.
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