“Ok, I’m here.” He said strolling into the room and tossing his jacket on to the chair.

“So I’ve noticed.” She replied through teeth that were clenched around a pencil.

“Are you ready to do this valance thing?”

She misheard him as she shuffled through the bags around the ladder. She’d had valences waiting, unhung, for months.

“Valencing? Oh! Ha. Yes, it’ll be an Olympic sport next year. I’ve signed us up for the team, we’ll be head stud finders.”

Paul McCartney is captivating a magnificent and obviously adoring audience with a very lively and modern rendition of “Hey Jude” on the television. They stand, frozen, leaned against the counter, mesmerized by the tune and the message.

“It’s almost sad that he’s old enough to be the father of most of his band members.” She whispers shrewdly.

He snickers, pretends not to hear her and leans over further attempting to illustrate his conviction in being completely enraptured by the music coming from the television across the room.

“Really though, I don’t care how old he is, I’d still…”

“Oh my God. Shut up!” He said sharply, nearly sounding offended.

“Well, it’s not as bad as you made it sound the other day! Who were we talking about?”

The two of them had been driving back from having her car washed. They were chatting happily about politics and their mutual liberal interests.

“That Joe Biden is not a bad looking guy.” She said matter-of-factly.

“Yeah, he’s not bad looking, I guess. I mean not in that, “I’d *bleep* the hell out of that guy! Ooo yeah.”

“Oh my God! You didn’t just… oh dear. I just can’t talk to you at all. I mean, sure he’s attractive, but I don’t think I’d… I just can’t imagine talking about someone that way.”

“Thank goodness I used the word “bleep,” right?” He said slyly.

The strains of “Lady Madonna” whipped about the room. She looked at him wickedly.

“I’m just saying, given my chance with Sir Paul…”

“SHUT UP!” He said, clapping his hands over his ears.

“What? You are so naughty. I’m just saying he’d be tired the next day!”