My baby loves jazz. Dizzy, Monk, Bird. Joni goes to Jazz Club every Thursday night, seven to ten, at the town library. I stay home and scrub pots, shampoo the kitten, launder the bed sheets. I’m more the classical kind of guy.

Joni dresses up. The swirly skirt that shows her lovely legs. The slinky top. The sly perfume. We’re in the driveway kissing goodbye. “What’s on tap tonight?” I ask.

“Early Blues,” Joni answers, slipping into her red Miata.

The pots shine. The kitten purrs. The bed sheets smell sunshine fresh. Bach, Beethoven, Brahms. I drive to town, park in the library lot, take the creaky stairs to the basement meeting room.

Seven codgers sit around an old record player listening to a scratchy tune about a guy being done wrong. Outside I circle the parking lot. Soft breeze sifts through ancient trees. Moonlight makes its silent moan. No Miata.

“How was it?” I ask, when Joni comes home a little after eleven.

She doesn’t answer at first. She stoops to pet Fluffy. And then she stands slowly and smiles at me, a slow, sly, deeply sated smile, but she can’t meet my eyes. Instead, as always, she takes my hand, she takes me into the bedroom, and on our sunshine fresh sheets, she shows me.

Dizzy. Monk. Bird.

Jazz.