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The Duet of MI and LA or The Case of The Two Missing Notes
by laur-N freeman
doe ray MI fa so LA ti doe
Once upon a time there was a black ally-cat named Yammy. Yammy had a friend named Mr. Breakfast, a short, emaciated, ratty-haired magician with long, gnarled fingernails and even longer thumbnails. Mr. Breakfast was slightly myopic in his left eye for which he needed and often wore thick-lensed, wire-rimmed spectacles. Mr. Breakfast collected Betty Page videos, lounged leopard print sofas, and had a strong fondness for extra spicy tabasco sauce. His forte lay in the art of enchantment.
Together, Yammy and Mr. breakfast decided to open up a bar. Being the ego-maniacle feline that he was, Yammy insisted that it be called Yammy the Cat.
And so it was.
In compliance with recently enforced health regulations, Mr. breakfast insisted that he, and not his four-legged friend, tend bar. Yammy had no choice but to agree.
The bar opened.
It was an eclectic neighborhood success.
Not long after the opening, fed up with his dwindling presence in immediate business operations, Yammy walked out. That same night, in a dank and smelly downtown alley-way, he became acquainted with a disoriented tabby-cat named Tabitha. Tête á tête, the two commiserated about their lack of involvement in human entrepreneurial pursuits. Absconding into a nearby dumpster, they plotted to overtake the world and were never seen again.
Yammy&Mac226;s sudden disappearance left Mr. Breakfast crestfallen, alone behind the bar, at once losing his best friend and sole confidant.
He was not alone for long.
MI began to frequent Yammy the Cat and soon came to fill the vacant place in Mr. Breakfast&Mac226;s ailing heart. MI secured a job tending bar every Thursday night. While working, he would bemuse the random melange of patrons with jocose tales of twenty-something urban malaise.
MI a comic-book salesperson/comedian/writer by day had curly hair and shimmering azure eyes.
***
LA liked lolly-pops and loved to hula-hoop. She also enjoyed playing with bouncy balls and silly-putty, and fancied nothing better than to take the streets by flame on her fire-engine red bicycle.
One fateful mid-summer Thursday night, LA meandered into Yammy the Cat. She perched herself at the bar and ordered a scotch, neat. Stricken she was, mesmerized by the crystalline eyes of her server, MI. Over-reactive pheremones in the air, soon, but not too soon, balancing two unstable isotopes.
The night passed and the scale that played in LA&Mac226;s head was stuck on that third note: MI. In MI&Mac226;s head, the situation was similar, his heart stuck on that sixth note: LA. Throughout the week, MI and LA danced diachronously, a dynamic duet.
The following Thursday night, LA rode to Yammy the Cat once again. She opened the door to find MI standing behind the bar. Unbeknownst to LA, he was as excited as she by her entrance, not at all bothered by her somewhat sweaty smell from having biked fiercely through the summer smogged urban sprawl. Basking in the breeze of the rotating electric fan, LA lifted her arms and closed her eyes, the rhythm of the machine mingling with the music in her head.
Enter: Mr. Breakfast. Infamous ŒBreakfast&Mac226;, ŒMr. B&Mac226;, or plain old ŒB&Mac226; to locals and friends alike. Breakfast was beguiling with card tricks, compelling unsuspecting female patrons to seductively lick their fingers, touch random cards, magically transmuted into other cards, the very ones which they had chosen at the outset of the trick. Oooo-la-la.
LA was privy to these darkly bewitching tricks. Convinced that Breakfast possessed supernatural powers, she confided in him her lust after MI who was furiously fetching the few customers their preferred vice.
Breakfast was intrigued by this mysterious young vixen in her powder-blue leather mini-skirt, bra-less chest under a snug orange t-shirt, black velcro mary-janes over turquoise pom-pommed bobby socks. Assuring her that MI had the potential to be the Superman of suitors, the Batman of boyfriends, Breakfast offered LA this advice to lure in her oblivious obsession: Tell him you have a secret... tell him your secret can only be disclosed in the washroom...lead him into the washroom ... close the door..place a passionate kiss on his unsuspecting lips and... voila.
LA could not believe her ears. This was hardly her style, even after two glasses of too- mild Merlot. Breakfast, with magical wit and mesmerizing lucidity, said that she should let go of her inhibitions. LIVE LA, live; a little risk never killed anyone. If you just wait for things to happen, an unrelenting Œwhat if&Mac226; with venomous teeth and a diabolic sneer will gnaw away at you forever, shrieking a high-pitched chorus of Œwhat if, what if, what if...&Mac226; two wretched words that insidiously devour, destroy you.
At that moment, on his way to the washroom, MI passed by sorcerer and apprentice. He shut the door and locked it behind him. Awe-struck and amazed, LA and Breakfast took note. Look LA, Fate delivers! muttered Breakfast, his speech slowly slurring, ...now pounce!
Enchanted, under the influence of unusual charm as though hypnotized by a spell herself, LA stood, unstuck leather skirt from sticky thighs, walked over to the washroom door and anxiously awaited her third note&Mac226;s exit. She imagined the duet, the lascivious lingering, melodious mingling.
The door opened.
MI was shocked to see LA before him. She smiled, an effort to mask nervous anticipation with a flash of radiant confidence. In a state of awkward bewilderment, they lingered, looking at one another. Engulfed, spellbound. LA asked MI if she could kiss him. He replied, his voice undulating, a melody melding flattery and surprise.
The two notes met in a dynamic duet.
MI led LA into the washroom. He shut the door and locked it.
There they remained for a long while, tongues intertwined, singing a euphonious symphony of Ray, Fa, So, Ti, and sometimes even Doe.
Between movements, MI revealed his asymmetrical earlobes and LA demonstrated her ability to wiggle her ears. They compared scars (his, a long meandering path bisecting his belly; hers, a short, slanted, appendectomous line marking the right side of her torso). He told her the impossible reality of his four cases of chicken pox and she unveiled her orange ruffled purple underwear.
Lights turned off then on again. Echoing in the ears of ten patrons was intermittent knocking and banging, the absence of two notes noted by all.
After a climactic Crescendo and drawn-out Denoument, the duet came to a close. Two hot foreheads in one washroom - water rinsed the evidence of passion down the drain.
A round of applause erupted from the imaginary audience.
The door opened.
The grand Fin was followed by an encore of awkwardness, previously unrehearsed.
MI and LA sauntered out. Gasps then silence overtook the bar. Ten heads noted the return of the two absentees. Triumphant smiles bloomed on both blushing faces.
In a heartbeat, LA returned to Mr. Breakfast on the leopard print sofa and MI resumed tending bar, but nothing returned to the way it had been before, for the endless duet of MI and LA played on in their heads.
by laur-N freeman
doe ray MI fa so LA ti doe
Once upon a time there was a black ally-cat named Yammy. Yammy had a friend named Mr. Breakfast, a short, emaciated, ratty-haired magician with long, gnarled fingernails and even longer thumbnails. Mr. Breakfast was slightly myopic in his left eye for which he needed and often wore thick-lensed, wire-rimmed spectacles. Mr. Breakfast collected Betty Page videos, lounged leopard print sofas, and had a strong fondness for extra spicy tabasco sauce. His forte lay in the art of enchantment.
Together, Yammy and Mr. breakfast decided to open up a bar. Being the ego-maniacle feline that he was, Yammy insisted that it be called Yammy the Cat.
And so it was.
In compliance with recently enforced health regulations, Mr. breakfast insisted that he, and not his four-legged friend, tend bar. Yammy had no choice but to agree.
The bar opened.
It was an eclectic neighborhood success.
Not long after the opening, fed up with his dwindling presence in immediate business operations, Yammy walked out. That same night, in a dank and smelly downtown alley-way, he became acquainted with a disoriented tabby-cat named Tabitha. Tête á tête, the two commiserated about their lack of involvement in human entrepreneurial pursuits. Absconding into a nearby dumpster, they plotted to overtake the world and were never seen again.
Yammy&Mac226;s sudden disappearance left Mr. Breakfast crestfallen, alone behind the bar, at once losing his best friend and sole confidant.
He was not alone for long.
MI began to frequent Yammy the Cat and soon came to fill the vacant place in Mr. Breakfast&Mac226;s ailing heart. MI secured a job tending bar every Thursday night. While working, he would bemuse the random melange of patrons with jocose tales of twenty-something urban malaise.
MI a comic-book salesperson/comedian/writer by day had curly hair and shimmering azure eyes.
***
LA liked lolly-pops and loved to hula-hoop. She also enjoyed playing with bouncy balls and silly-putty, and fancied nothing better than to take the streets by flame on her fire-engine red bicycle.
One fateful mid-summer Thursday night, LA meandered into Yammy the Cat. She perched herself at the bar and ordered a scotch, neat. Stricken she was, mesmerized by the crystalline eyes of her server, MI. Over-reactive pheremones in the air, soon, but not too soon, balancing two unstable isotopes.
The night passed and the scale that played in LA&Mac226;s head was stuck on that third note: MI. In MI&Mac226;s head, the situation was similar, his heart stuck on that sixth note: LA. Throughout the week, MI and LA danced diachronously, a dynamic duet.
The following Thursday night, LA rode to Yammy the Cat once again. She opened the door to find MI standing behind the bar. Unbeknownst to LA, he was as excited as she by her entrance, not at all bothered by her somewhat sweaty smell from having biked fiercely through the summer smogged urban sprawl. Basking in the breeze of the rotating electric fan, LA lifted her arms and closed her eyes, the rhythm of the machine mingling with the music in her head.
Enter: Mr. Breakfast. Infamous ŒBreakfast&Mac226;, ŒMr. B&Mac226;, or plain old ŒB&Mac226; to locals and friends alike. Breakfast was beguiling with card tricks, compelling unsuspecting female patrons to seductively lick their fingers, touch random cards, magically transmuted into other cards, the very ones which they had chosen at the outset of the trick. Oooo-la-la.
LA was privy to these darkly bewitching tricks. Convinced that Breakfast possessed supernatural powers, she confided in him her lust after MI who was furiously fetching the few customers their preferred vice.
Breakfast was intrigued by this mysterious young vixen in her powder-blue leather mini-skirt, bra-less chest under a snug orange t-shirt, black velcro mary-janes over turquoise pom-pommed bobby socks. Assuring her that MI had the potential to be the Superman of suitors, the Batman of boyfriends, Breakfast offered LA this advice to lure in her oblivious obsession: Tell him you have a secret... tell him your secret can only be disclosed in the washroom...lead him into the washroom ... close the door..place a passionate kiss on his unsuspecting lips and... voila.
LA could not believe her ears. This was hardly her style, even after two glasses of too- mild Merlot. Breakfast, with magical wit and mesmerizing lucidity, said that she should let go of her inhibitions. LIVE LA, live; a little risk never killed anyone. If you just wait for things to happen, an unrelenting Œwhat if&Mac226; with venomous teeth and a diabolic sneer will gnaw away at you forever, shrieking a high-pitched chorus of Œwhat if, what if, what if...&Mac226; two wretched words that insidiously devour, destroy you.
At that moment, on his way to the washroom, MI passed by sorcerer and apprentice. He shut the door and locked it behind him. Awe-struck and amazed, LA and Breakfast took note. Look LA, Fate delivers! muttered Breakfast, his speech slowly slurring, ...now pounce!
Enchanted, under the influence of unusual charm as though hypnotized by a spell herself, LA stood, unstuck leather skirt from sticky thighs, walked over to the washroom door and anxiously awaited her third note&Mac226;s exit. She imagined the duet, the lascivious lingering, melodious mingling.
The door opened.
MI was shocked to see LA before him. She smiled, an effort to mask nervous anticipation with a flash of radiant confidence. In a state of awkward bewilderment, they lingered, looking at one another. Engulfed, spellbound. LA asked MI if she could kiss him. He replied, his voice undulating, a melody melding flattery and surprise.
The two notes met in a dynamic duet.
MI led LA into the washroom. He shut the door and locked it.
There they remained for a long while, tongues intertwined, singing a euphonious symphony of Ray, Fa, So, Ti, and sometimes even Doe.
Between movements, MI revealed his asymmetrical earlobes and LA demonstrated her ability to wiggle her ears. They compared scars (his, a long meandering path bisecting his belly; hers, a short, slanted, appendectomous line marking the right side of her torso). He told her the impossible reality of his four cases of chicken pox and she unveiled her orange ruffled purple underwear.
Lights turned off then on again. Echoing in the ears of ten patrons was intermittent knocking and banging, the absence of two notes noted by all.
After a climactic Crescendo and drawn-out Denoument, the duet came to a close. Two hot foreheads in one washroom - water rinsed the evidence of passion down the drain.
A round of applause erupted from the imaginary audience.
The door opened.
The grand Fin was followed by an encore of awkwardness, previously unrehearsed.
MI and LA sauntered out. Gasps then silence overtook the bar. Ten heads noted the return of the two absentees. Triumphant smiles bloomed on both blushing faces.
In a heartbeat, LA returned to Mr. Breakfast on the leopard print sofa and MI resumed tending bar, but nothing returned to the way it had been before, for the endless duet of MI and LA played on in their heads.
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