It’s a Beautiful Night

“You should write what hurts,” he said, raising his glass to his lips. His furrowed brow seemed to me showing more concern than enjoying this Friday night.

His words were rhythmic and hypnotic, like the sheet music under his book of Ansel Adams. His walls were fine art and family photos.

“Are we ready to go?” his fingers stumbled about in his pocket for keys, then wallet. He reached behind him with his left arm outstretched for me. He began to pull me up out of my hypnosis. “It’s a beautiful night.”