First thing she asks, as always: “Wheredja get the idea for that song?” I’m a composer, y’see. “From life,” I tell her, as always. “Whatcha mean?” the second thing she asks, as always, but now behind an “I Can’t Breathe” white on black mask. “Look at this,” I say, and drop in her long fine unringed hand, the one without the scissors close to my head. With a turn of her tapering neck,“Whassat?” she goes. “That” is a news item I’ve brought with me to yet still another of the yearslong biweeklies and “Wheredjas?” “That” is “Doctor Says People Begging For COVID Vaccine Before Being Intubated.” I think, y’see, it may help— convert her, so to say. Y’see, she’s a confirmed anti-vaxxer who induces uneasy silences before she goes, “So?,” before she goes on snipping and clicking, before, her stilettos clacking, she circumnavigates to operate to perfect the cut. I say nothing—utilizing, y know, silence to facilitate reflection? Yeah, right. Finished, I leave, musing, “Supercuts can blend the gray away.” . . . But I’ll be back, as always, with a finger snap, ’cuz, artist to artist, she’s given me a consummate do, as always, and I’ll return, with the funky, clean and harmonic, winky face of my latest hit: “Too Late To Intubate,” and she’ll say: “Wheredja get the idea for that song?”