Lost in Translation

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“So what’s fun to do on Friday nights in Richmond?” I ask Laura. “I mean, other than eating.”

“Karaoke,” she says. “Want to go? It’s huge here.”

She’s right. There are like a dozen karaoke spots, including one a block or so from my hotel, Millennium, which has 13 private rooms and over 40,000 songs.

“If we go, we have to do a Lost in Translation thing,” I tell her.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m Bill Murray and you have to wear a pink wig and be Scarlett Johansson.”

“I love that movie!” Laura says. “What do you think he whispered to her at the end?”

“I’ll see you in L.A.”

Laura laughs. “In that case I’d better not be Scarlett Johansson. I don’t think The Tug Boat Captain would approve.”

I nod. “Maybe you could just wear the pink wig. And I won’t whisper in your ear.”

“Hmmmm….” says Laura. “Let me think about that.”

Now I’m not sure if I hope she still wants to go to a karaoke bar or not. I would like to see her in a pink wig.

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