The songs in the shop were songs with moons in them, songs about waiting and forgetting and remembering. Songs addressed to GIRL and ONLY YOU. Only You was reading a crime novel, an old paperback that sold for fifty cents. The detective was shaken up after a close call and had taken to the drink. The whole thing shuddered like a blouse on a line in a rainstorm. A coat brushed against Only You. The contact was as heavy as the burden of someone loving Only You. This was a desolate place. The dame was the commanding type. Only You saw a constellation in the shape of a crustacean. There was shuffle on a shelf nearby, and, just before nine, the tape went quiet.