A consonant walks into a bar and sits down next to a vowel. "Hi," he says. "Have you been here before?"
"Of cursive," she replies. "I'm irregular. I come here, like, all the time."
He can tell from her accent (which is kind acute) that she is a vowelly girl. He looks her over. Without a dot, she's a cipher sore i's. She's short and has a nice assonance. To capital off, she has quite an uppercase. He hopes he's just metonymphomaniac and wonders if she would write him off. He remains stationery, enveloped by her charm. His initial reaction is so pronounced, he doesn't know what to say. He is, at present, tense. "You've a lovely set of...teeth," he sputters in complement. "Do you crush with breast--I mean, do you brush with Crest?"
"Oh my god, gag me with a spoonerism! What align! Your mind is in thick guttural, fer sure."
Admiring her figure of speech, he falls into a fantasy. He pictures a perfect wedding. They exchange wedding vowels. The minister says, "I now pronouns you husband and wife." A man with omission, he kisses her on the ellipsis. "I love you, noun forever," he size. She takes him literally, proofing her love. The conjugation is in tiers. In a word, they are wed. He awakens from his daydream and proposes a dance. "If you are so ink lined."
She parses for a moment and then declines.
"Would you like a beer? Alcohol the bartender--"
"I bitter not," she says, falling silent.
Ferment there, she looks like she's going to bee [sic].
"Are you okay?" he asks.
"I'm under a lot of stress. I've got a yeast inflection."
"I knew something was brewing." He calls over the bartender. "Bud, my beer is warm."
The bartender empties the bottle into the sink. The consonant watches as his hops go down the drain. A middling lush, he orders margin.
Abandoning all pretext, he says, "Let's go to my place. I'd like to have a word with you...if you know what I mean. If you're in the mood, it's imperative that you come."
"Are you prepositioning me?" she asks, shifting in her seat.
"Hardly. Okay--I won't be indirect. You are the object of my preposition. Understood? Are we in agreement? Are we on the same page?"
"Oh my god, you're such a boldfaced character!"
Not reading too much into her remarks, and thus failing to grasp her subtext, he says, "I see your point. But I'm font of you."
He phrase her nerves and now she shows her clause. She tells him, in no inserting terms, "I don't caret all for you! Do I have to spell it out? It's not like I've been leading you on. You're way over the line!"
He knows he could plea serif she would only modifier behavior and give him a chance. He asks if he gives her his number, will she phoneme?
Her voice rising, she says, "You're not my type!"
Foot firmly in mouth, he says he would like to meter again and asks if he can look her up sometime.
Not wanting to be subject to his advances any longer, she yells, "Get off my case! That's right--just defy me if you dare!"
His hopes slashed en dashed, he languages a moment. He braces himself and decides to letter b. Though he would like to eraser from his mind, he says, "Iamb certainly going to remember this tilde day I dye. What a finite this has been. Now my evening lies in runes." But he's not too word about it. His happiness is not predicated upon her acceptance. His disappointment is offset by an indelible inkling that he'll have letter luck next time.
Original version © 1991 Gary Roma
Revised version © 2007 Gary Roma