The Last Waltz of the Wandering Stars
The champagne was warm, which was fitting, because everything in this room was warm. The heat of too many bodies, too many bottles, too many years of people who had seen the end of the world and decided to dance anyway. Fitzgerald—no, not Fitzgerald, that was the name of the man sitting on the piano, the one with the trumpet and the eyes that had seen too much—no, his name was Julian Ashworth,...
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