The opener of MY MOZART as a kind of Mozart Kugeln sweetie for the Maestro's Birthday,
January 27th
January 27th
"Mozart, Ich liebe dich. I love you. Love
you."
"Come, Nanina Nightingale. Come and give your poor
old Maestro some of your ‘specially sugary sugar."
My mouth on his‑‑the friction produced warmth and sweetness,
with a decided undertone of the expensive brandy he liked, flowing from his
tongue to mine. I slid my arms across the brocade of his jacket, none too clean
these days, and swayed a slender dancer's body against him.
Let me assure you that my sophistication was assumed. It
really doesn't matter - then, or now. I was young, foolish, and drowning in
love. I was seventeen. He was thirty five.
I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year...
I believed he knew everything--that he could see right through me with those bright blue eyes. He probably could. He'd been my music master--and, more--my deity, ever since I'd met him, in my ninth year...
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