It was love at first sight. Her long ebony throat and Italian curves caused his fingers to itch. She stood alone in a dark shop corner, her amber profile collecting admiring glances from passersby. He finally found the courage and moved in closer hoping she shared his obsession for the Blues.

Later, while she tuned amorously from his favorite chair, he finished a song titled A Creoles Life they were to soon perform at his favorite nightclub.

When the time came they were booed off the stage and asked never to return.

Embarrassed and dejected, he made a slow funeral march out to the woodshed dragging her along the frozen ground. As he ran his fingers over her exposed nape she wept “I love you”. Arm raised, blade crying in the moonlight, he passed down his operatic sentence: “You are sexy, priceless and you felt good in my hands. But the reality is, you lied to me. You are not a violin but a viola and I’m ashamed to be heard with you” he paused; “I love you too”; His swinging axe finally meeting her neck.