“<i>The Duke’s</i>, huh?” Anton repeated.  “Okay, got it, and it’s a W, F, and S.  Thanks, Stella.  I’ll definitely stop by.”  The trio of initials were his mental shorthand for the nights she’d be performing, as he wasn’t about to stop to write it down.  And he definitely wasn’t about to attempt it while driving.  Stella was an obvious option, but really, if he couldn’t recall one short name and three initials, then he was most surely hopeless.<br/><br/>Anton had to laugh at her earful comment, not to mention the foot-stomping, yelling, and cursing.  He wondered what type of music called for foot-stomping, but refrained from asking.  Patience was a virtue, as they say, so he’d patiently wait to find out.  “Ha!  I would never rap on the ceiling with a broom handle,” he informed her with a smile.  “I actually enjoy listening to you play.”  A brief pause, and then, “<i>We</i>actually enjoy listening to you play,” he stated, almost forgetting his feline roommate.  “Just remember though,” he said chuckling, “that I’ll be hearing your foot-stomping more than your upstairs neighbor.”<br/><br/>Smiling at her inquisition of the music being played, he responded, “That’s a mix I made of a band called<i>Morphine.  </i>They’re a three-man band outta Boston, I believe.  If you like the rhythm section of bands, you’d love them,” he explained.  Anton recalled seeing the band perform live twice, both times with Evangeline.  He had turned her on to the band, and it seemed whenever he spun a disc of theirs at home, she turned into instant horn dog.  Obviously, she loved the rhythm section, too.<br/><br/>“The lead singer plays a two-string bass, while the other two provide backup vocals,” he continued.  “One guy’s on the drums, while the other toots a wicked baritone sax, as I’m sure you’ve already heard.  Sad thing is, their lead singer, Mark Sandman, died from a heart attack in the middle of a performance about 20 years or so ago.  True story.”  He vividly remembered how devastated he was when he’d heard of Sandman’s sudden passing.  The man may not have been on the same level as a John Lennon, but as far as Anton was concerned, he was.  He cherished that band, one of his all-time favorites, in fact.<br/><br/>Brief glances her way (he was driving after all), as Stella reflected on his account of Mark Sandman, while the intimacy of the car highlighted her perfumed skin.  The Audi’s heating system only exacerbated the situation, constantly circulating her scent throughout.  Still, he was happy she was warm with no sign of even one goosebump being visible on her.  Anton decidedly doubted that goosebumps traveled solitarily, because when one showed up, an entire freaking army of them also appeared!<br/><br/>Stella stealthily removed one of her heels, though the second one produced an audible<i>thud </i>as it landed on the car’s floor.  Anton smiled affectionately at the sound, since Evangeline did the exact same thing where<i>Operation High-Heel Removal </i>was concerned.  Though more often than not, she’d back that up with a “These fucking things are killing me!”  He smirked at the remembrance, as he was always amazed at the lengths women would go to (not to mention the suffering) for “the look.”  Screw that, he thought, give me comfort any day of the week!  But then again, he wasn’t a woman, so what did he know?<br/><br/>Pulling into their building’s garage, he slid his automobile into its designated spot.  While Stella saw to her high heels, Anton scampered toward her side of the car.  Opening her door, he offered his hand for assistance, just in case her heels decided to bite back with a potential twisted ankle.  A wonderful evening was nearing its end.