Posted Monday, May 31st, 2004
He offered me cashews. The night before, I'd seen him performing, spreading his fingers on his keyboard. I looked at the Band-Aid glowing from his elbow. I asked him what he wanted.
"Sex," he said.
"I'm not a prostitute," I said.
"Tell me what to give you."
I reached for a cashew, putting my fingers in his basket. "I want to know what creates that music."
He looked at me. He took my drink of water. The cashew was salty.
Outside was a blizzard. Inside everything was banging.
Comments [post a comment]
Posted by Christos Tsitsaros on Tuesday, June 1st, 2004 at 12:24 AM
This is an excellent story. It's like as if every word is important and relevant.