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"First things first", she thought to herself, "the earwax must come first". Fortunately, just at that moment, her internal monologue restored itself, and we didn't have to hear the rest of that line of thought. Bob shifted restlessly in his x-seat, watching her study the q-tip. He always found her q-tip expression the most moving. He dabbed at his eyes as she poked at her ears. It made her eyes water and his ears ring. They were symbiotically linked. It had been this way for over a year now, since the Gorkinbrackins had come.
"Are you ready for the dance, darling?" he asked in his trademark husky voice. "Will you sweep me off my feet tonight?" she replied in a breathy monotone. He got out the broom. With a thrill of anticipation, he swung it around. It swooshed, and made contact, separating her lower legs from the rest of her. She floated in mid-air. Frozen, Matrix-like, in time for a micromoment. Then time got back to business and all that. She landed gracefully in Third Position, and he reached for her left hand.
That, too, came off in one fluid motion, and before long, the whole room was cluttered with floating, swooping body parts. Like sunflowers in a gale, they bobbed and nodded in time to the music. Mozart's 'Concerto for all organs' it was, and the orchestra was in top form. The audience murmured appreciatively. Slowly, Bob brought different parts together, smilingly, feelingly. They snapped together with a pop, and there she was again! The music thundered to a climactic end, the curtain fell, and as one the audience lept to their feet. It was a hit, a very palpable hit.
Backstage, Ida still fretted over her ears. "No, it was my ears, Bob, my ears! We didn't achieve the heights we could have if I had been more kempt!"
Bob stroked her hand soothingly, which briefly came off, then back on.
"Whatever shall we do about the primping and the polishing? If we are to win, we must be together in form. There will be ample time for ankles and elbows, but we must not forget the neckline and nose."
"The Niedermeyers always show more skin, and they win every year," he whined.
"Fine," Ida relented with a sigh, "Take your shirt off during the performance if you think it will give us an edge. No one cares for art anymore, only titilation." She flounced off in a huff.
The audience was all anticipation. They looked like a classy bunch: only a few fake hands and ears, etc. could been seen being tossed about. Some people just couldn't resist participating in the arts, even when they lacked the talent.
