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Standing before my nemesis, I sigh and scan, A3, B4, C6 or D3. My lips<br />
pinched by defeat, the quarter hangs at the slot. But the psychic needle drops.<br />
The drums obliterate conformity while the guitar forces a new path. I look to the<br />
clock, to the hallway; my chest rises ‘on we sweep, with threshing ore.’ I. Am.<br />
Eating. Warm. Food!<br />
Leaning, I peep out the break room then dash down the vacant hall, my chest<br />
struggling to contain the armies of frogs gulping their Juan Valdez.<br />
Wiping my palms, the down button winces under my unrelenting index finger,<br />
desperate to escape the illusive Productivity Police threatening to discover my<br />
transgression. Flattened into the corner of the elevator, I straighten my smile to<br />
halt the Ginger Rogers spin that threatens.<br />
The doors ping open, I step out as others crowd in. Life outside the glass<br />
walls now lit by the morning sun, my western shore is moments away. I race to<br />
the door.<br />
“On your way out, Kathryn?” Bob calls out, tearing the film reel of my day.<br />
“Um, just, just getting breakfast,” my voice quivers. “I’ll be back in five<br />
minutes, maybe less.” He nods his smile; I force mine back. Fred Astaire holds<br />
the door as I swoosh my entrance onto Ohio Street.<br />
Struggling with the weight of the door to the crowded café, the bell hurls a<br />
chaotic shockwave riveting from my ears to my feet. A cacophony of joy fills the<br />
café. Face tucked, I spy on others ignorant of my plight for change. Bravely, I<br />
release the door and breathe in the Creative Gift of a nation, France and the<br />
dreamlike warmth of yeast lightened by the spirited tang of fresh juices, freshly<br />
The Rules of Life by Melissa Abbott-Cooke. Contact: Melissa@therulesoflifebook.com 615-669-5643 16
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