I put The Lost Tapes on while I shaved my face, inching around two chin nicks turning the lather into the remnants of a strawberry shortcake paper plate soak-through. I tapped my Chucks on the pink, checkered floor to the cymbals. Heel toe, heel toe strut, stopping every few measures to re-tuck my herringbone-detail tie beneath my collar. I heard his trumpet wail, and mimicked it on the rusted shower rod like a cheap snare, deep drumstick strikes patched with meat tape. I carefully ran the flexed blade beneath my cheekbone like a piano-park saunter, trying not to step on the drummer’s heels ‘cause he hits it just right. And the brass birds are just right. The bench creaks, the cinder snaps, the twilit fountain dance, the pop- skip needle, the slick floor, the jazz faucet, and the shave are all just right.