"What was that?" I ask. Plumbing emergency?
___
Her world is a top 40 radio station, and she's constantly belting out one or two lines from anything you may have heard on the radio in the past 60 years.
After another round of "Total Eclipse of the Heart," I said, "It's like I've been invited to The Michelle Karaoke Party."
We've turned on one of the seven televisions that dot the property, programmed it to the oldies station for our mornings spent lounging around eating pineapple and mango and blueberries and cherries, and in between sun salutations and lazy laps across the pool, lined up next to each other trying to erase tan lines the illogical way -- by absorbing more sun -- we burst into song, alternating lines without rehearsal, coming together on the chorus, or just humming along with the familiar bass line. "I know I've got to find some kind of peace of mind," I hum, J sings, and The Girl belts.
"How do we know all these songs?" Michelle asked, these songs that were published 30 years before we were born. God, they were just perfect: Elvis to Smokey to Tina, Jerry to Stevie to The Supremes.
"Doesn't everyone?" I answered.