The booth is a confessional, and I’m still not good at it

I just wrapped a wedding in the Cotswolds—three hours of dancing, one tearful toast from a groom who looked like he’d been holding his breath since the vows. The booth’s all glass and cables and blinking lights, but somehow it feels like the most honest place I’ve ever stood. I played a song for the bride that she’d never heard before, something slow and dusty from a French folk record I found on a rainy Tuesday. She cried. So did her sister. And I sat there thinking: why do we need a machine to tell us how we feel? The shoes I wore today are old, scuffed, one heel slightly higher than the oth