"It's 7:50 and they still haven't started," I said. "That's twenty minutes late." I stuffed my phone back into my bag. Even with the back-light on low it was obvious in the dim lighting of the cramped restaurant. "I'm out of here at 8:30."
Adam just smiled and shrugged his narrow shoulders. He was a pretty obliging guy, considering I basically dragged him here. One of my classes required that I go to a literary event, or something, so I just randomly picked a reading series to check out before the due date. I realized after I paid the five dollar entrance fee that it was for poetry and short-short fiction.
Great. My two least favorite types of writing. Now I would get to listen to people read them at me.
I tugged on a short piece of hair that kept poking me in the eye and huffed, using one long finger to trace the tip of my nose. It's really fucking rude in my opinion. They made this event, people came to this cruddy little corner of town - graffiti on everything outside and people whose eyes would take in the size of your bag before going to your tits - and now they're not even starting the damn reading on time.
The lady - she was actually really nicely dressed and made up, so she's earned that noun - that took my five bucks for the reading kept looking at me, then turning and talking to some larger guy then returning back to her neutral position. The fuck was her problem? Yes, lady, I'm over 21. No, lady, I'm not going to stay for the entire damn thing.
How the hell do I write a review for a reading series anyway? "Oh, the atmosphere was nice but the locale was creepy and killed it for me." "The first reader had some nice lines, but her voice made me think of a duck's quack. No tone, no pitch. Just QWACK!" "This particular reading series amounts to nothing more than allowing for writers to masturbate in our faces in a literary fashion. Pretty sure I got some abstract ejaculate on my shirt."
Sure, that would go over well.
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