Someone at work plays this song. Late at night, I would be labouring over some script and contemplating the moment I sold my soul years back and why I didn’t listen to my mother and go into banking instead when the familiar drumbeats will start, and the longing strains of this love song — it has to be a love song, she can’t be singing like this about Cuban coffee, even if it was really, really good coffee — would fill the emptiness of the office all the way up to its high ceilings. It took a while, but I finally found out what song and this version of it.
