It was a coloratura soprano, characterized by a scale of h to f3 and very mobile.  Today, she sang the whole truth to me.  Prolonged rehearsals, artistic journeys.  It was a tenor whose scale oscillated between c and d2.  I've suspected her for a long time, since I started to detect some falsehood in her voice when she told me about concerts, trips.

I looked around the room and motioned to the waiter.  He approached slowly, and I could hear the weariness in his voice.  Like me, he probably wanted to be home.  I asked for the bill and couldn't help but take my last sip of Château Pontet-Canet, 2009. I closed my eyes, listening to the sounds coming from all sides of the room.  2009 was a really great vintage, it never let me down.

I hailed a yellow cab.  The driver, an elderly African American man, was listening to the blues.  I tapped on the glass and asked him to make it a little louder.  I guess he figured I was in no rush and wanted to relax listening to his music, because he drove me around half of Manhattan.  The city was falling asleep.

I stopped going to the opera.  I even missed her wonderful performance of the Queen of the Night from The Magic Flute.  For some time, I found repertoire for the next seasons in my mailbox.  But someone must have thought I died because I haven't been getting any for a while.

Every morning, and sometimes several times at night, I am awakened by a strong voice from the diaphragm, the scale of which is probably still undetermined.  And the second one, the most beautiful and the cleanest, who sings lullabies to the first one in the evening, in the morning in the shower, making breakfast in the kitchen, or just for me, when we lie on the grass in Central Park, watching the lazy clouds float by.