Cold brew
For the past few weeks I've been trying to compose a post about the belly dancing class my neighbor convinced me to take with her. Each attempt to write about this class has ended up lewd, indecent and vulgar. Basically as tasteless as the dance itself.
Not that I'm a stranger to coarse things such as that.
Tonight I desperately want a drink, but I promised myself I wouldn't. I've committed to only imbibe on Fridays, Saturdays, Birthdays, Holidays and Vacation days. Sounds like a lot of days, doesn’t it? But at 5:45 PM in the middle of the week, it's a hard promise to keep. Hell - tonight it's only Sunday and it’s hard.
I live only 20 paces from the train tracks - the tracks that run from Detroit to Chicago - and I've grown so used to the sounds that I hardly hear the noise anymore. In lieu of a drink, I retire to my narrow bed in my narrow bedroom of my tiny loft apartment above the health food store. My tiny apartment - located in an antiquated building with red brick walls and steel beams - gets little sunlight but still has a fair view. If I crane my neck I can look beyond the iron bedposts and see the train as it passes, eight times a day five days a week.
If you listen very carefully past the vulgar horn blasts, past the monotonous chugging clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety, past all the sounds you normally associate with the tracks, you can just hear the sound of steel scraping steel - a delicate sound of a finger tracing the top of a wine glass.
I miss it.
Not that I'm a stranger to coarse things such as that.
Tonight I desperately want a drink, but I promised myself I wouldn't. I've committed to only imbibe on Fridays, Saturdays, Birthdays, Holidays and Vacation days. Sounds like a lot of days, doesn’t it? But at 5:45 PM in the middle of the week, it's a hard promise to keep. Hell - tonight it's only Sunday and it’s hard.
I live only 20 paces from the train tracks - the tracks that run from Detroit to Chicago - and I've grown so used to the sounds that I hardly hear the noise anymore. In lieu of a drink, I retire to my narrow bed in my narrow bedroom of my tiny loft apartment above the health food store. My tiny apartment - located in an antiquated building with red brick walls and steel beams - gets little sunlight but still has a fair view. If I crane my neck I can look beyond the iron bedposts and see the train as it passes, eight times a day five days a week.
If you listen very carefully past the vulgar horn blasts, past the monotonous chugging clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety-clackety, past all the sounds you normally associate with the tracks, you can just hear the sound of steel scraping steel - a delicate sound of a finger tracing the top of a wine glass.
I miss it.
posted by Noir Muse at 12:33 AM
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