The cat only wants to go outside.  It’s night, her favorite time, and she stalks the uncoiled garden hose, which has become a fierce green snake that falls to her attack.  He and she are dead tired, drowned in the sixth night of the fifth annual jazz festival.  His shirt is bathed in the half dried dampness of sweat.  She sags as though ligaments have shut down for the night.  He sinks into the sofa, uncertain if he can rise.  The cat returns to the side door triumphant, the mighty green striped python left motionless on the walkway.  Later, as he waits for her to finish her shower, he sheds the shirt, but the saxophone and trumpet cling to him, and even under the fine spray of the shower, he can still smell the brush stirring the snare and cymbal.  It is only later, deep in sleep, that the pillow absorbs the last chord of the guitar.

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