Friday, January 16, 2004
My Own Beat
She pointed at me menacingly with her lit cigarette. It glowed and crackled, but I stared past it to look her in the eye. In the background the monotonous, repeating rhythm of Taking Care of Business pounded against the back of my head.
'If you can't dance, then you can't write,' she said.
Then she took her cigarette and extinguished it forcefully into the little elvis shaped ashtray that sat between us on the table. She shook her head once, still staring at me with disdain, mechanically rose from her seat, and paced out of the establishment.
I didn't sleep that night. I cried until my pillow was soaked. And then, the next morning, to the brilliant melody of silence, I began to write.
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