Elvis does the D’s

[Emma Lee's boss makes his first Elvis portrait]

This afternoon Emma Lee and Elvis got a call from the Producer. He was hanging out with another producer, and just a few blocks away (see the letter E for more on the adventures with The Producers). With dispatch, Emma Lee gathered her things and headed for the Academy. On her way, she descried her old flame, one Burning Man, out on a desultory romp with a band of buddies. The demure crowd was strolling down one of the burg’s more desolate steets. She did not demur at sight of her ex, but rather crossed straightway to her droll buddy. The debonair fellow has always been dauntless, he announced her arrival to his friends—and to all the denizens within two city blocks—with a shout, as if the denotation were some sort of demotic pronouncement. Shortly thereafter, the rest of the crowd dissembled disinterest by dropping, as leaves do from a deciduous tree, from the conversation. The decollete-clad ladies reassembled down the block until the old couple’s reunion was complete.
There was no dearth of compliments exchanged between the two, their conversation devolved from disquisition about each one’s whereabouts to a minutes-long bear hug with dialectical dulcets exchanged ear-to-ear. The Burning man offered to buy Emma Lee and Elvis a drink after her exam; when Emma Lee questioned whether the teetotaler disapprobation of alcohol still stood he opted for deference. Apparently, decadence would be the order of the day. Dyspeptic or disgorging, the debaser in Mr. Burning Man would deign for a martini or three. They put merriment on the post-test docket and departed, each continuing their separate ways.