“I’m not a guy!”

Phil cocked his head at her across the desk.  He scratched his beard and leaned on his fist supported by his elbow.  “Yeah, I get that.  No adams apple, for one thing.”  His other hand tapped the pencil it was holding.

“And I thought it was the breasts.”  Anne’s brown eyes blazed at him.  “Rush is a wonderful fucking band, but not for a romantic musical.  They’re the type of concerts that the audience is two-thirds male.  Putting a Rush tune in this show would be like listing sarcasm and Klingon under languages on your resume.”

The navy blue ball cap covered his receding brown hair that was also over-compensated with its length half-way down his back.  His blue eyes were shaded and magnified by his Austin Powers inspired glasses.  “I speak Klingon.”  His zip-up sweater was black with a white tee-shirt beneath it.

Anne’s head dropped forward in annoyance.  “I know you do.  It isn’t romantic.”  Her hoody was the colour of cement and her red-graying hair was captured in the hood.

Each had a pad of foolscap in front of them.  They also had many MP3 players ready for this project and filled to their electrical brim with tunes.  A single box of facial tissues sat on the corner of the table beside Anne thanks to the season of the allergy.

“How could this not turn someone on?” He pressed play on the player…

“Yeah, great tune, but…”  She stopped the player before the song ended.

Phil laughed.  “But what?”

“It brings me images of guys head banging in the basement between rolling their dee-twenties to see who kills the dwarf with their plus two sword.”

“Wow…that’s hot.”

“Bullshit!”

Shaking his head he interrupted, “No, I mean the fact you know the lingo is hot.”

Through a giggle, Anne turned on her player a little more quietly.  “Try this and allow me to set the mood.”

Phil’s eyes rolled with the opening notes.

Anne raised her hands to create a picture frame.  “On the stage we have a man, one giant man. He is sitting on a kitchen chair facing the audience.  He wears a tight red tee-shirt that shows off his pecs and black pants.  On to the stage dances a blonde in a black leather sports bra, shorts and knee-high boots.  She swoons to the music and slowly dances closer to him as the lights go a little lower.  The dance becomes a lap dance as she straddles and pulsates over him.”

Phil’s mouth slowly opened as the image sank in.

“The dance continues to get closer and closer until he is kissing her neck and his arms are around her.  They rock together as she spins on him and lowers to her knees.  From behind, the audience is unable to see exactly what she is doing, but from the movement it is pretty obvious as her hands tug at his zipper.  Then her face drops into his lap and…”

Phil’s pencil clattered to the table.  His eyes wide, he asked, “And…?”

“And you cannot fucking do this scene to a Rush tune!”

“No,” Phil’s answer was half-way between squeak and croak.  He could no longer make eye contact with her and his face was more red than the tee-shirt she had described.  “No, you can’t.”

Anne laughed and passed him the box of tissues.  “You may need these.”

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