After five-plus weeks, a rekindled desire to find my voice
"You know you want it," she said, twirling her hair seductively while she uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
"No," I said with far more conviction than I felt. "No. I don't."
"Oh, please." She leaned in close, and I could feel her breath teasing my ear. "You've tried to quit me before, but you've come back every time. A week, two weeks ... more ..."
"Mmm-hmm," she purred. "So why are you talking to me tonight?"
I took a long slug of my drink, to buy time more than anything else. It didn't work.
"Because I miss you." It came out as a harsh-sounding whisper.
She smiled and tousled my hair. "Damn right," she said. "Damn right."
"I don't even have time to be with you," I spat. "I don't even know why I'm here."
"Time, schmime," she said. "You're a writer, sweetie. You write. And when you're not writing and there's serious shit happening -- the Phillies are farting crooked numbers every night, the mayor is hosting Sex and the City parties, the cops are realizing how shitty it is to be judged and punished without due process -- it's tough to find yourself sitting on the sidelines."
"Yeah. I ... miss it."
"Of course you do. Sounds like maybe you're looking for something new."
"Yeah," I repeated. "Something new ... The voices claiming to speak for the city and the region ... I think I can be one of them. I ... want to be one of them."
"Welcome back, slugger," she said. | PRS