I am in a city bookstore last night, one of the last independents, not many people, a slow night, and I see an old friend, who is a music writer and scholar. We start talking about this and that, and then he suddenly puts his hand on my arm. "Stop", he says. And out of the background music, which neither of us have been paying attention, comes Billie Holliday. He knows what it is from the first bar -- I have the record too, it is "Sophisticated Lady" from the 1956 Verve sessions, maybe the best thing she ever did, including "Strange Fruit" -- and it takes me a few seconds, backthinking, to note that he wanted to capture the frailest part of the song, right at the beginning where she just hits the notes on: "They say into your early life romance came". I would usually keep listening as I move around, but he is just captured by the song, and I am too. We stand like two statues. And after a few seconds, a woman opposite stops, looks at us, smiles, and starts listening too.

"Smoking, drinking" (slight slur on drinking) "never thinking of tomorrow, nonchalant" (very nonchalant)
Diamonds shining (diamonds dusty, muted, not shining),
dancing, dining with some man in a restaurant" (God, how many restaurants)
Is that all you really want?
No, sophisticated lady,
I know, you miss the love you lost long ago
And when nobody is nigh you cry"
The song ends, and the music -- some tape of stuff -- goes into orchestral Ellington, beautiful, but the spell is broken. We smile, part company, and go our ways. A friend's intense attention opens a space in the evening, and we are graced for a moment by the dark and diamond world created by a singer, that voice, a record, a tune.

No great thought: just a moment.