A light early morning rain had moistened the landscape with the sun just beginning to peek through the billowy clouds.
The solarium was located to the rear of the spacious 1920’s house, and except for two stools and a photographer’s floor lamp, the place was vacant. The room overlooked a captivating, shabby chic flower and herb garden that was surrounded by a variety of oak, beech and maple trees and evergreens. Water on the leaves and needles dripped like honey from fingers onto the rich soil. Two women conversed across from each other with their cellos by their side.
“There’s only so many ways to construe it. Though I suppose it sounds banal, I must apologize for being without a disguise this morning.” Carlene offered.
“Apologize? Disguise? Let’s be candid. There are things peculiar to our natural selves that attracts others of similar taste, quality and sophistication. It’s about the genetic reservoir in which we are swimming.” Tilda replied.
“Genetic reservoir, darling? what are you talking about?” Carlene asked.
“I’m referring to the available person(s) who might indulge us with those elegant accessories of which we are accustomed.” Tilda said. “For example, jewelry and furniture.”
“Tripe. We both have an instrument that fits snuggly between our legs. The present situation elicits the most intimate of stimulating and creative privileges.”
“I prefer playing with my instrument…naked. It adds clarity to the musical note expressed on my body.” She then placed her instrument gently between her bare legs, reached around with her long, slender fingers and paused, looked at her fellow cellist with bow in hand and asked, “Shall we?”