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February 10, 2003
They found the wine bar where the exotic-looking jazz singer from the art gallery was performing. A woman moved her sleeping child from the corner of the huge blue-velour sofa and they settled in as though they’d reserved tickets for that particular spot. They sipped rich, dry Bordeaux and ate cheese bread olives Genoa salami and mustards that reminded her of France, while the sultry Celia crooned Lover Man and My Romance and I Can’t Make You Love Me, and of course, My Funny Valentine. Every song they ever heard together had lyrics that mattered, and she always sang along.