Music Box Dreamer

“Turn that blasted thing down,” Ann reached out with her slender right hand and adjusted the volume knob as her father’s voice filled her ears. There was a “Thank you, that’s better,” before he returned to his drink, cigar and conversation.   “Come on then Moppet and follow my lead,”   Two bodies, both willowy swayed and moved to the rapid beat of the bongos, to the pounding of the bass, to the hissing rhythm of the snare drums. One was in perfect synchronization. Bertha missed the beat, missed the flow more often than not.   “Ouch, be careful dear, that’s my right foot, I’m going to need it for my wedding.”   Bertha’s loud, “Sorry Annie,” didn’t sound all that contrite.   “That’s ok dear, just try and be more careful.”   Once more two female bodies surrendered to the moment, surrendered to the magic, surrendered to the wildness of pounding drums. The music stopped, the girls stopped. Berth’s small hand lifted up the phonograph arm and set it down in the first grove. By now the teen seemed to be catching on to the flow of the samba.   “Bertha Foster broke the long silence, “Will you come to the Bijou Saturday Annie, please, please. Stage Coach is playing and John Wayne is in it. He’s so dreamy. You’ll fall in love with him. I just know you will.”   “You’re a fickle moppet. Why just last week you were mooning over Clark Gable and calling him dreamy.”

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