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I’m not sure how he got in or where he came from, but there he was. Paganini, large as life - and very, very drunk. On my sofa. At two in the afternoon. Or at least someone who looked very like him, right down to the delicate fingers that were plucking the strings of a violin.
My violin, I realised, as he glanced up, eyes focusing on me with difficulty.
"This violin," he managed to slur indignantly, "is shit.”
"I’m not surprised, I bought it for a tenner in a charity shop," I replied as I walked through to the kitchen, setting down the shopping bag on the table. I could hear him getting up with effort from the sofa then stumbling after me as I gazed around the kitchen. I frowned at the mess; there were several demijohns of my homebrewed mead on the table, several of which looked to have been sampled.
"Your… wine… it is very good though,” he continued as I glanced at him with a raised eyebrow, and then he gave me a charming, boyish grin.
"It’s mead," I replied. "It’s also about eighteen percent. How much did you drink?"
"I lost count," he said airily, waving the violin around. "This violin - why do you have such a shit violin?"
"Because I’m a shit player who has only been teaching myself for a couple of months," I replied. "I cannot believe I am discussing a crap violin with Paganini, of all people, in my kitchen."
"You know me!" he exclaimed delightedly as he stood there, swaying.
"I should think so, you’re one of my favourite composers," I remarked as I reached for the violin. He snatched it back out of my reach.
"I thought you said it was a shit violin?" I said.
"It is true," nodded Paganini. "But it was the only violin I could find."
"Hang on, you broke into my house and drank my mead… because you were looking for a violin?" I said slowly.
"And I found one!" he said triumphantly, before ruining the effect with a hiccup.
"You’re drunk," I said. He grinned boyishly.
"And you love me," he said roguishly.
He was right, of course.
~ Fin. ~