Bassoonist v. Beautician

The Bassoonist, broken bassoon in tow, wanders to the cremains by the northern fence. He sees the ash, the skulls, the bones. Nearby he sees the remaining bodies, the crows - and, from beneath body of the Bailiff - a family of rats. He throws his bassoon on the ash heap. It clatters against the black bones, kicking up a small cloud of dust. He turns and walks back to the oak.

The Beautician arrives shortly after. She's a pretty, well-shaped woman. Slight pug nose. Dyed blond hair. Eyebrows plucked, then reapplied. In dark skin-tight jeans, a pink jacket, a sweater.

The Beautician explains how difficult it was to take time off from work. The explanation involves mention of a considerable number of other women, all referred to by their first name, all of whom - except for one - were unable to cover the Beautician's shift. All - except for that one - cite spurious reasons as to why they can't help cover. She says all this as if speaking to an old acquaintance, finally turning her back to the Bassoonist, bending slightly to rummage through her purse, which she's set on the table.

The Bassoonist, feeling naked without his bassoon, and presently confronted by the recreational end of moderately attractive woman, brushes down his hair, adjusts his tortoise frame glasses and attempts his hand at polite conversation.

Nice pants, he says.

The woman rights herself, turns and frowns. She watches him sternly as she applies lipstick. Then, closing the lipstick and tossing it back into her purse, she smiles sarcastically and asks if he's always been as charming with the ladies. The Bassoonist coughs. Thinking quickly, he asks what job it was from which she sought relief. (He words it exactly like that, unfortunately.)

I signed up at the CC for cosmology but because of a stupid bureaucratic error I got put in cosmetology instead. And I was really good at it, because I always gave my sister and my dog makeovers, and so I did really well. And the guy I was dating at the time was all, you should get a job at the mall. And so I did. And that's what put me through college.

What was your major?

I told you. Cosmology.

The Bassoonist nods.

Anyway, then I thought, well - why not just keep doing what got you through college? I would have to get like at least ten more years of school to be a cosmologist, anyway, and can you imagine the student loans? So for the past two years I've been working as chief personal aesthetician, which is like a supervisor.

She looks away. The Bassoonist, looking to push ahead the conversation, struggles for words.

Were - were you interested in anything, with regard to cosmology?

What? She looks back. Oh, she says, I don't know. Quintessence, I guess. Mostly quintessence.

The Bassoonist fidgets.

She choses the gun without the kitsune nicks. Without objection, he takes the other. They the field, standing ten paces apart.

They raise their guns. Their guns go off.