Udo and the eighth note were dating. He asked her if she wanted dark chocolates. He doubted that she might deem dark chocolates a bad omen. He had not yet gotten over the colonial hangover. She said she loved dark chocolates.
The quaver's only fear was that she could not make music, for she was a part of his music herself. She nevertheless was proud of her beautiful pair of eyes and her graceful gait. She carried the air of poetry with her.
She was just the quaver. Nothing beyond. Udo had to kiss her into being by strumming his guitar or striking the piano keys for exactly her span.
She was so much by being a just the eighth note. Each time the old lady next door heard Udo tryst with her, she wrote a letter to the old man who was out-of-home and hid it in her wardrobe drawer.
The quaver was perfect for Udo. She was neither too long to bore him or satiate, nor was she too absent to be forgotten about.
She soothed him down whenever she thought he wasn't happy. Sometimes, hidden in the ganglion beneath his hair, for his hair was too thick to reveal her. He was more insensitive to her mood swings. He responded, made her and spoke to her only when she peered out of his sheets and flaunted herself enticingly happy or sad.
I do not know if they still date. The eighth note speaks to me often. She just tells me that Udo is.