Bad Luck.

 

 

As the bluesy ragtime narrative began, I scratched my head.


"It’s weird that you like this so much," I said.


"Why? It makes me happy. That’s what music is supposed to do," she answered, coming over and placing her hands on my shoulders.


"It’s alright, I suppose, just not my favorite," I said, relaxing as she began to work at the knots of tension in my shoulders. It seemed like I never got away from those knots.


"You’re trying too hard," she said. "You should just let the painting create itself. Let your hand wander."

"It’s easier said than done."


"I know. Sometimes you just have to put the brush down and realize that you're not meant to paint anything at all, at least not today. Sometimes you try to be a painter when you should really be doing the dishes or grocery shopping, or dancing with your girlfriend."


The song changed to a more upbeat number, as if she had cued it, but I think her conversational timing had more to do with the fact that she knew the song order on the CD. 


"They call him the Champion for a reason," she took a step back, starting a little dance move. "Because he's the best. Some of his songs are sad, some are happy, but the man knew exactly how to let the music just write itself, wandering all around. He let the music lead him."


I had to admit that the song's progression was making me a feel a little bit better. She spun me around on the barstool. 


"Kiss me," she demanded, and I complied. She raked her teeth across my lower lip. "Let’s dance."