He tells a story and leaves one name out. She hears the place where it should have been.
He laughs: it does not matter. Then he looks at her, checking whether she will accept this edited version.
She does not ask for a beautiful biography. She asks him not to shrink himself to a convenient size, to put the closed rooms back into the story and finish the sentence. She has time to hear all of it.
In the second verse, the invitation turns towards her. She takes out a photograph she has kept folded in half for years. She always showed only one half and called the other something long overcome. Her fingers knew that was untrue.
She unfolds it on the table. The crease runs straight through her smile.
After that, words are no longer needed. Cello and flugelhorn carry the story on, and the final chorus returns as a mutual decision.
‘Bring your whole life. I’m bringing mine.’