"Oh, Joe! Come here so we can talk." She patted the bed beside her as though he were a cat or a little boy. "Take off your shoes. You might as well be comfortable." He obeyed slowly. There was a dream like quality in the room, a scent of honeysuckle. She pointed a remote control and skipped through radio stations until she found jazz.
"Adult music," he said, balancing his wine and sliding next to her.
"All music is adult," she said, "with the possible exception of disco."
"Even country," he added.
"Especially country. 'Take this job and shove it."'
"Ha. You're all right, Isabelle." They touched glasses. "Is this
Coltrane?"
"Yes," Isabelle said.
"Strange," Joe said, "most sax players sound the same. Then one grabs you. What is it about Coltrane?"
"Deep stuff," she said. "So where's Mrs. Joe?"
"Ex-Mrs. Joe. On her way back to Maine, I guess. She was at the wedding. They both were, the ex-Mrs. Joes."