I kept the money under my stack of records at home----Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Bread----and at the end of the week I had five hundred and fifty-two dollars, pressed flat as envelopes from the weight of all that music.
"Well, at least it's all over," I said. Joni Mitchell was keening " Little Green" on Sils's record player. Sils listened to that song all the time now, like some woeful soundtrack. The soprano slides and oos of the song always made us both sing along, when I was there. "Little green, be a gypsy dancer." Twenty years later at a cocktail party, I would watch an entire roomful of women, one by one and in bunches, begin to sing this song when it came on over the sound system. They quit conversations, touched people's arms, turned toward the corner stereo and sang in a show of memory and surprise. All the women knew the words, every last one of them, and it shocked the men.
(Contributed by Tara Lindsay)