We’d poured ourselves two glasses of rye and coke on ice.

I went over to a chair and, turning it to face the stove, sat down in front of the fire. After watching the flames a few moments, I got up and turned on some music.

It was Roy Forbes, and Roy Forbes always makes me dance and sing.

The mood change in the room was palpable as I sashayed over to L, now reclining, to request this dance. He refused, gently, so I stood talking to him, smiling, swaying, laughing. This went on for several minutes, and I kicked my heels around the room some, unable to stand still.

Finally he pulled me down next to him on the couch and held me in a passionate vise grip. I relaxed and leaned back against him, looking at his face while listening to the words of Roy’s songs which, combined with his unique voice and signature guitar, moved us both to singing along.

Then the kissing began, which led to dancing, which led to the playground, which led to “the silky veils of ardour” (Joni Mitchell song) until the CD changed to... Dean Martin.

Now I love Dean’s croon and all, but his songs are too corny to be erotic.

One night on TV there was a show called Artspots or somesuch.
A string quartette or was it a trio was playing
And the music carried me to a place
Right where I am, but more
And I knew for sure
Listening
That we are more than body
More than mundane flesh.

There really is spirit
And music is magic.