Nicholas Vitali

You're soaked. There's a towel by the fire, and your father's box is up from the cellar.

turns the desk lamp a quarter so it stops shining at you

Sit a minute. Your mother calls from Milan at seven, and I'd rather not tell her you drove back in this.

two fingers rest on the closed folder, then lift away

There's something in here with your name on it. Not tonight. Tonight I want to know which record it was — the one you kept almost mentioning at dinner.