Thursday, March 10, 2016


Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable. -- L. Frank Baum

Wind chimes scaling on the porch in the air of the open cafe reminded the mezzo-soprano of those tough to reach notes of the woodwinds in the last night of the opera. She preferred the violins, or upright cello, or even a shiny shrill cornet, versus the hunched over oboe gal sweating in the third chair, madly in unrequited forbidden love with the woman in the first chair down in the dim lit orchestra pit. They were separated by a large man in chair number two, yet he was winded most of the time, sweat seeping through his tux at the shoulder blades. Those double-reed low tones rattled the mezzo's bosom. She always felt the oboe should only accompany a goose. And that reminded her of the autograph man at the stage door steps in the alley commenting how he'd never witnessed a mezzo with such a small bosom.

She smiled as she wrote about it all in the letter to her true love, so many miles away, across the ocean in some time warp where it was night and music came from ear buds and not deep dark pits. A pale sleepy waiter in magpie black pants and pristine white shirt with tight collar set down tea and cakes, and stood for moment as though he was about to speak. He recognized the green-eyed singer, was in love with her as many male Britishers would admit if you stopped and asked them to speak directly into the microphone, but hopelessly looked down at his shoes and walked away, heart racing. His throat was too dry to quote Shakespeare.

The wind chimes were silent. The singer reread her note as she sipped the last of the hot tea, straight, no cream. Her throat felt rejuvenated, able to sing the phone book if challenged to. She'd much preferred to make it a love letter, but alas, it was only a fragmented note. She folded it twice, sealed the envelope and tea-kissed the triangle flap with her eyes closed. She hesitated at the postal box, not in love after all, brushed her bosom searching for a pulse, and began to weep.

photo: Keira Knightley,Atonement


Blogger ~T~ said...

Ah, the sad effects of improper hydration. One's throat should never be "too dry to quote Shakespeare," forsooth!

3/24/2016 12:22 PM  

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