the vagabonds

He never minded having her around. It was like setting a saucer of milk down on the brick stoop expecting a vagabond cat to show, watching from a hiding place not to scare it away. Despite her complaining that he never had any thing good to play, he could always fire off a paragraph or two on the typewriter just having her around. Just having her shoes at the door and the way she smelled. The cigarette taste when he kissed the girl.
'You don't have anything', she'd say, sorting through covers.
'You always like the one about the man and his dog', he'd say, dabbing the white-out.
'Play that one', he'd say, looking at her, her smiling then.
She'd fingertip the vinyl, dropping the needle.
He'd type with the downbeat, following her mournful eyes, the water streaking against the window, outside so, so cold.


photo: Charlotte Gainsbourg, AnOther
song: Dave Moore - Down To The River

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aCxJkEBZ4Mc