A little piece of my NANoWriMo project

She put her dollar in the box, made her song choices and sat at the bar. He considered her for a long while and that consideration mixed with his stream of memories just as smoothly as rum mixes with Coke. With the soundtrack to his life pouring from the jukebox behind him, he came to believe in short order that he was communicating with her and that she understood. The next song was White Room by Cream and it propelled him up and in her direction with exuberance.


"Hi, do you feel like dancing? I love this song," he asked too close, too loud, too drunk.

"No," she startled nastily, and she had this look on her face like he was crazy or criminal - some lower form.

It hit him like a slap that she didn't understand at all. She was probably twenty five years younger than he was and obviously devoid of a soul. It mixed with the booze and pissed him off, not the rejection really, but the lack of understanding. He danced alone then, out of pure defiance, and felt exalted and like wrecking the place all at once. When the song was over, he stood there sweating and breathing heavily for a moment until Tea Party let him know it was time to leave.