Haunting your meanings

“Thank you,” said the harpist, his sightless eyes wandering across the room. “Thank you. So great to see you all out here tonight.”

The crowd laughed. “Good to hear you,” someone crooned.

The singer stood up and walked through the crowd to the bar, which was a banana shaped hunk of wood that was raised off the floor with long iron spikes. As with everywhere else in the room, no two stools at the bar looked alike. She sat on something that looked like an umbrella that had come to life and then been transmuted into wood.

Quill strolled over. “You’re singing is haunting.”

“Maybe I’m a ghost.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Well then why did you say it?”

“I meant that your singing took my breath away.”

“Shouldn’t listen for too long then, or you’ll die.”

“That’s not what I meant either.”

“Well then maybe you should just say what you mean.”

“I guess I can’t.”

“Then maybe you shouldn’t talk.”

“But I want to know your story.”