The other day Laszlo was pacing the kitchen. (Unlike most of us New Yorkers Laz has a kitchen in which you can pace, or even swing a cat if that’s your thing, although it would have to be a a compact cat with a calm and abiding temperament.)
Lala: “What’s doing, Laz? What’s wrong?”
She had been writing bits of her novel (shopping for boot deals on Piperlime.)
Lazlo scratched his nose. “Nothing’s wrong. Why’dya think something’s wrong?”
Lala: “You were talking to yourself and cleaning, even more than usual.”
“I’ve got piano today.” He said it with a grim expression that usually accompanies tax time or Lala’s insistence on salad night.
Lala, a perceptive powerhouse if e’re one walked the earth, said with brightness and love, “Don’t worry, Laz: you’ll be great!”
“I haven’t practiced. At all,” he said, bending over to inspect a quark-sized piece of dust on the floor.
“You’ll be fine. She’s your teacher after all– she’s supposed to tea— why are you making that groaning noise?”
He scuffed his shoe on the floor, then said. “What are you doing today?”
Outside in the city, a siren whined like an elephant that was just given an unsalted peanut. A horn sounded. “I was going to work here today,” said Lala.
Laszlo: “I mean, are you sticking around this afternoon?”
Lala picked at the cuticle on her right index finger.”You mean when your teacher comes?”
Laszlo, looking boyish: “ER… Yeah.”
“Well this is awkward,” said Lala. “You want me to leave?”
Laszlo swung around to look at her. “That’s a great idea. What a good idea!”
“…so I don’t hear your lesson?” Laszlo didn’t answer, so Lala slumped off to locate a missing shoe. Las located the escaped footwear under a couch and presented it to her. She took it with terribly wounded dignity.
Laz: You’re so pretty.
Lala only snorted at this weak attempt at consolation.
Now, dear readers, Lala has never been the kind to merely sit in on any activity that doesn’t focus on her– and someone else’s piano lesson, even that of her sworn lover, is no exception.
Naturally though, now that she had been forcibly evicted from the lesson she felt bereft of joy…
Yes, she was nearly overcome by an abiding desire to sit in on the lesson. She had never wanted anything so badly, except perhaps that YSL purse she saw at Nieman’s.
So to drown her sorrows she went where all budding novelistas surely go when they are kicked out of their office/boyfriend’s home:
to get a mani-pedi.
The next week Lala was prepared: she said she couldn’t get up and leave during the lesson due to a headache. So she got to listen to the piano lesson of Laszlo Von Glitz, America‘s favorite artist, or at least Lala’s favorite artist.
After about 20 minutes, she kind of, just kind of, wished she had gotten a mani-pedi instead.
“I can’t believe you didn’t like my piano-playing!” says Laszlo as he reads this over Lala’s shoulder.
“It’s not that you weren’t amazing. It’s just that hiding in your bedroom pretending to have a headache has its limitations,” Lala says.
“I mean, this is really discouraging,” Laszlo goes on. “That’s WHY I didn’t want you there last week! Because of this crap!”
“Why are you sharpening that knife so close to me, Laz?” says Lala.