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Show -288 "Listen to that," I said. "Mellow. The only radio I ever heard that sounded better was in a 1947 Buick that Adam bought just before I left home." Morgan handed me the last plate and I put it away. The kitchen smelled steamy, warm; it was a comforting place, and the music from the old radio called up waves of feeling in me. Tenderness, sadness, a sweet melancholy that went with memories of twelve-tube radios, leather seats and Dynaflow transmissions. "Let's dance," I said, "Come on, Morgan." "I want to talk." "Later," I said. I took her in my arms. We were awkward at first, slipping and shuffling across the old linoleum, over the cracked and faded roses and their hazy green-gray leaves which had nearly disappeared into a general worn brown, but we soon adjusted to each other and things got smoother. I remembered to come up more on my toes as I danced, which was difficult but more graceful, and we swirled and swooped in that steamy air, round and round the kitchen table, dazed by the music that came to us from far away, maybe as far as Denver or Salt Lake City. Morgan danced by feel and let me do the guiding; her eyes were closed, on her face was a tender expression. In her good times she was a loving woman. Maybe her spookiness was my fault. I whirled her past the sink, |