the letters were calling out to her
they sang when she pressed them
a writer's piano
all of the sudden
she didn't care about going clubbing
drinking and flirting with people and all that shallow shit
she wanted the typewriter beside the road
the guy selling had sleeve tattoos
and he knew the want in her eyes
he started showing her how the typewriter could have a hood and how it looked like a brief case when carried around
the whole shebang
then he his sleeve tattooed hand slipped and dropped the typewriter onto the pavement
it gave out a hurt cry
a yelp and screech
something clutched her heart and she squatted near the typewriter
poor baby she murmured touching the keys
sleeve tattoos lowered the price
she wanted the typewriter
she wanted the cream base with the chocolate black keys that stuck sometimes that could only type one letter at a time
she wanted the way thin iron bars would swing and hit the paper
inking it with a short and fat, grub letter
she hated that it was tattoo sleeves selling it
he didn't understand
he probably knew antique cars and whatever
he couldn't do typewriter
latter at the club
her friends would ask her why she looked agitated and moody
every beat that thumped out of the dance floor reminded her of the certainty the bars swung at the paper
the certain rhythmic beat that voiced out truths
but how could you tell anyone how you wanted to be writing
all the second long glances
heavy lids
smiles
outstretched arms reaching for men
nudging shoulders questioning women
on a typewriter
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