She listened to the sweet, broken, meloncholy voice singing above the swell of the orchestral strings. Smoke tendrils twirling towards the far reaches of the window screen. The lamp lights all twinkling illumination from the remnants of the evenings pale rain.

A jostled, stained bottle of pinot noir  carelessly placed upon the window sill, no desire to restle with the formality of glassware. Her weary frame leaning towards the slumber of the angels.