Laid out on flattened car seats she's brought in
from the rain, an electric double bass - her scale insists on his attention. Not curvy but slender, a frame
that aches for his tenderest ministrations. He calls her Nigella: she seems to sense she's in for
faltering practising, for an extended apprenticeship. She's sadder with each scuffle and nervous fumble
of his clumsy fingers, yearns for him to engage her with his trembling, stumbling digits, to learn
to make music, to make Nigella moan.