©2021

Sylvie

‘Look! That one there….no – just over there to the right – behind the big apartment building to the left…..doesn’t it look like a lion head?’

His cerulean blue eyes, rotated about, searching for her reference.

‘Sortof’, he admitted. ‘Well, not really, it’s more like a…’

‘No, Doofus……you took too long – it’s shifted now – it’s become another shape, a – let me see….a – a frog! Yes, a frog! See, the big bulging eyes, the line of its head…..Yes – of course – it’s a frog!’

He turned again, to his right, to gaze out of the floor to ceiling windows, following her pointing finger, to the west…..ice clinked gently in his glass as he moved.

‘Nah!’, he said. ‘But – wait….maybe – maybe, it’s a sortof, unicorn….see? See? It’s there just behind that big gray clump……’

‘You! You – you’re a big grey clump! No! It’s – it’s a – wait…..well, whaddaya know? It might be a unicorn, now…but, it’s a unicorn, humping a frog!’

And with that, she roared with laughter…..bending over, half off the barstool, she hooted and laughed, freely.

Solemnly, and with a great courtly lassitude, he turned to regard her there…..her long blonde hair cascading down and around her face, obscuring most all of it.

With a metallic crash, her cane slipped from the edge of the barstool and bounced off the granite floor tiles.

Which, only put her into another spasm of laughter.

He reached across, over the counter….placed his hand between her shoulder blades, and gently kneaded, massaged her there…..

After a few moments, with a deep, profound sigh, she righted herself and turned around to look at him. With a smile still pasted across her lovely features – a smile which tugged boyishly at the left corner of her mouth, she cocked her eyebrow, and said to him,

‘Okay – don’t get any dumb ideas, huh? We’ve been friends since that last campaign – let’s not screw it up now. Just because a unicorn is humping a frog, you are most definitely NOT going to have your way with me!’ And she giggled again.

He watched her, softly, bemused at this most amazing character.

‘Not a problem’, he said, softly. ‘Being as how, you’re a frog, you just ain’t my type’.

‘Hey wait a minute – let’s not get racist here……makes no difference that I’m from Quebec…and that you, unfortunately, aren’t!’

‘Besides’, she said, ‘If you try to come on to me I’ll beat you with my wooden leg!’.

And with that, they both laughed.

Shyly, she held out her hand, with the empty glass, towards him. ‘Another Jack, if you please’.

As he pulled the bottle from under the counter edge, she turned again to gaze through the windows.  It was a lovely apartment, situated on the coastline as it was, a few short steps from the back door to the Florida sand.

‘Well, that’s it for tonight, I guess. Too dark too see any more clouds…least not from here.’

With that they both fell into a quiet, companionable silence. Save for the soft jazzy sound from the sound system which meandered about the apartment.

After a few moments, she turned again to him, and said, ‘Okay – here’s the deal – who’s playing now?  If you get it right, I buy dinner Friday night…if you get it wrong, you buy dinner Saturday night.’

He gazed at her, a quizzical smile pulling at his mouth……

‘Why do you get Friday, and I get Saturday?’

‘Easy’, she replied, loftily. ‘That way I get you both nights, no?’

‘Okay – here goes’, he said. ‘He cocked his head slightly to his right, straining to pick up the nuances of the soft saxophone undercurrent.

‘Dexter Johnson!’, he said . ‘Opus for her’.

‘Wrong’, she retorted. ‘It’s Miles – Miles Davis – Fugue in G minor Blues’.

‘Not fair’, he said. ‘Just because you play sax, you have a distinct advantage!’.

‘Too bad…too bad – sore loser! So – Friday or Saturday – what’s it gonna be?’

As she finished her sentence, a light chirping intruded.

She managed to slide off her stool, and without her cane, hopped and hobbled across to where she had left her purse on the large cream-colored sofa that faced out  the windows of the 43^rd floor.

Grabbing it, while trying to gracefully maintain her balance, she plunged her right hand into the depths of the bag, withdrawing it with a cel-phone chirping brightly.

‘Oui – ‘allo’ she said. ‘Oui – c’est moi – c’est Sylvie içi…’

‘Ahhh – oui, oui…..je connais….vous etes l’ami de Frederic, non?’

He processed what little French he knew and realized, she was talking to a friend of Frederic……

Her brow creased in a frown as she turned away, facing out across the Intracoastal. She was still, in an unbalanced pose, but, oh so ever cute, just like that, he thought.

He covertly regarded her tight butt, as she was poised, half over the sofa, in earnest conversation.

‘Those legs’, he thought. ‘My – how they do go on forever!’

It didn’t help, that she was wearing skintight leggings, under a micro-mini, which was now riding perilously close to the top of her…

‘Whatever!’,  he declared to himself. ‘We’re friends – good friends –not gonna go there….nope!’

And with that he tore his gaze away to concentrate to his preparation of the steaks he was readying for their dinner.

‘A dash or two light soya sauce …..sprinkling of Montreal Steak Spices……one side, then the other…a dollop of bourbon!  ‘Ready!’ he said to himself, under his breath…or so he thought.

‘Ready for what?’, she piped up. A mischievious smile on her face, she leered at him…..’Are you asking me what I think you’re asking me?’ she said, archly.

Pulled from the concentration of a task, which he had chosen so as to not be distracted by her, he responded, ‘Wha??? Sorry – what did you say? What did you ask me?’

She looked, coolly, at him. Sliding her gaze off to the right, she softly replied, ‘Nothing – it’s nothing…I just thought you asked me something.’

‘K’, he replied. ‘Steaks almost ready for the grill……I’m making the salad. You sure you want baked potatoe? With sour cream, chives, peppers?’

‘Yup! Yummy! I’m starved. How long before it’s ready?’

‘Oh about 25 minutes, all together……that okay?’, he asked.

In those few moments of his concentration spent on his culinary arts, she had maneuvered her way back to the counter, and perched herself on the stool.

With one hand cupping her chin, and the other holding the almost empty glass of Jack Daniels, she asked, ‘So – do you come here often?’

‘What’s this?’, he replied. ‘You trying out a new pick-up line on me?’

‘Might be…just might be’, she replied with a slightly twisted smile. ‘You can never really know, you know….you gotta kiss a whole bunch of frogs before you find the Princess, eh?’

Her defining Canadianism brought a soft giggle to him.

‘Yup! You just never do know……so – you know of any frogs about here?’ he asked.

‘Speaking for myself, culturally, see…..I just might…..after all, you did, before, allude to my frogness……’

‘I did not!’, he replied emphatically.

‘I was referring to your cloud visions……or, should I say, your clouded vision?’

‘Yeah – sure you were.’,  she replied, somewhat despondent.

‘Okay – here’s the deal……I’ll tell you about my day, then you tell me about your day – we’ll have dinner, and then we’ll call it a night.’

Coolly, he turned to regard her sudden change in attitude. Taking in her regal stance, her long blonde, straight hair, her look of concentration, he decided, not to go there.

She smiled gently at him and said, softly,  ‘Alright…..I’ll go first’

©michael moore 2008