A Morning Ruined
Or was it?
I am an empty vessel through which a story may come into this world. I call forth a story to come through me now.
Langston said this in his mind three times. With anything important he always said things or did things in threes.
Langston was a writer and he did 95.4 per cent of all his writing in the mornings. To him, mornings were sacred. He had already gone outside to perform his sunrise ceremony and he had already done his morning meditation. He had a full glass of ice water with lemon on his writing desk along with a full pack of cigarettes, a lighter, and a clean and empty ashtray.
He was ready to write. Taking three long deep breaths he placed his fingers above the computer keyboard.
And that is when it happened. There was a knock at his door.
Goddamn it! Goddamn it! Goddamn it!
Withdrawing his fingertips, Langston got up to answer the door.
With the door barely open enough to enter, Ricardo raced past Langston and began pacing back and forth in Langston’s home. Ricardo was a casual friend Langston had known for about five years.
Although the two men had nothing in common Ricardo had somehow managed to ingratiate himself into Langston’s life.
