Man playing the double bass in the jazz band, I know you’re a good musician, I like what you play, and your instrument is like architectural marvel. The mahogany of its structure is so shiny, if that is the kind of wood it is, and if it isn’t, well the compliment is still there.
Your jazz band play for fun not money, but still, you make money, and if I were you I’d let, ‘Meet Tom, he plays the double bass!’ be your introductory sentence at dinner parties; you deserve it. I’ve figured to myself that you’re called Tom, because we all do imagine what peoples names might be just from how they look, and as Tom is a good solid kinda name, quite like the instrument you play, I think Tom is a good bet. I know I’m going to talk to you once your set is finished. I know this because I know how nice it is to hear good feedback. I’ll involve your fellow band members too. And if this all goes as well as I hope it will, I’ll ask you if you’d like some ice-cream from the ice-cream van that’s parked just beyond the fence of the park where we’ll sit and talk for hours, set either width end of a cased double bass, there acting as a table to our first unhealthy meal together.
My pink cardigan will be draped across your double bass; I do this so that you’ll have that image in your head of when a part of me was draped over such an important part of you. Awkwardly we’ll walk to catch the subway, awkward because of bulk that’ll leave you talking to me from behind your instrument, but I’ll be enjoying the moment of when I felt like I was on a date with a double bass, one that thanked me for ice-cream, and one who kissed my left cheek only to look forward to kissing the right.
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