Oh my. As I'm typing, I can still see you standing there with the caramel turtles that I flung in our terrible last fight stuck to the keys of your beloved accordion. There was a mint patty smeared on your cheek. I never told you how jealous I was of your musicianship, the seriousness always working underneath all of those four am champagne swims in the fountain in the square. You'll always be a flapper in my book.