“He snapped on his tiny portable Japanese radio. Ballroom music, so muted and blurred one could not distinguish the separate musical instruments in the orchestra, was in progress, song hits from two generations before that gave him a feeling of mild surfeited comfort, as he mopped himself with a face cloth under his open shirt. At the height of his comfort he caught Cynthia’s unrhythmic spike-heeled tromp, similar to the sound of a circus pony. Then he heard her open the door, key-ring jangling.... “Do you listen to that cheap cascade of sound?” she stormed. “It’s background, sweety,” he picked small particles of tobacco from his upper teeth. “Hey, I’m getting to like soft music,” he counterfeited elation. “Especially old soft. Your grandmother heard this stuff. Anyhow I’ve had my education in real music,” and he imitated modern cacophony. “Pray don’t turn it off for my comfort!” Cynthia commanded, when she saw his finger beginning to touch the tuner. “Nonetheless,”MoreLessRead More Read Less
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