Scott LaFaro plays bass. Paul Motian on drums. Bill Evans tickles the keys. It is three a.m. 

I sit on the edge of a twin bed rubbing my eyes. There is snow falling on Manhattan. Steam heat fills the room.

A couple argues next door. She calls him an asshole and he says she’s a whore. Screaming and yelling while Sunday at the Village Vanguard plays in its entirety, drowning out the fight just a bit. A glass is thrown at a wall.

My Man’s Gone is turned up. Cracks and pops from the vinyl. A tea pot whistles. I remove the kettle from the hot plate and place tea bags inside of it. More shouting. More yelling. I turn up the radio to tune them out. There is silence next door.

Which one is dead? I wonder. Did she finally kill him? Every night, she threatens. Maybe tonight was the night. My money’s on her.

Tea is poured. Sugar and out of date cream are added. I stir while Solar begins to come over the speaker. I listen and smile. It’s half past three. Only music is heard. Beautiful, beautiful music. I open the window and stick my head out, looking down at the snow-covered sidewalks of 24th Street. There is no other place I’d rather be.