Constanze came up behind her husband and draped her arms around his shoulders. "You're always writing. How do you keep coming up with ideas?"
"This isn't an idea," Mozart said, putting down his quill. "It's finished already. It's a story, it's music." He smirked. "Anyway, I can write about anything."
"Really?"
"Yes. I could write an entire symphony for you, my dear."
"A symphony?" Stanzi giggled. "About what?"
"About your breasts."
"Wolfi!"
"What? You have nice breasts."
"You know, you really do have a one-track mind."
"Well they are. And they're musical. Watch!" To prove it, he leaned down and started tapping on them. He drummed his fingers on her corset. "Right there, two eight counts. And here…" he reached inside and squeezed. Stanzi let out a squeak. "A C!"
"Stop it! Wolfi, you dirty pig!" She pushed him off.
"No!" Mozart cried. "I have had an inspiration! I must make music!" And he pounced. Stanzi squealed and laughing, allowed herself to be pushed back onto the bed.
---***---
A while later Constanze sat brushing her hair when her husband came into the bedroom. He dropped a pile of parchment in front of her, grinning triumphantly.
"Wolfi, what's this?"
"Your symphony," Mozart said.
Stanzi blinked at him in shock.
"I told you I could!" he laughed. "Now, let me show you how it's played…"
Fin