The Other Typist

by Suzanne Rindell

She gave me a girlish smile that was at violent odds with the thin stream of smoke she immediately blew from her lips. It hung for a moment, seductively coiling and recoiling itself much like that infamous original serpent, and finally rose to the airy vaulted ceiling of the restaurant.

I can’t really stomach much of the newfangled nonsense that passes for art these days, and I find the people who chastise me to “broaden my mind” often have an offensively narrow view of how one should go about following this advice. My personal belief is that people who cannot work within the parameters of art’s great time-honored traditions simply lack the talent and discipline to do so.

The thing about rules is that when you break one, it is only a matter of time before you break more, and the severe architecture that once protected you is destined to come crashing down about your ears. I can only say I did it for the love of her, though the doctor I am seeing now hardly accepts that answer.

I’m sure you’ve heard it said a hundred times: The most objectionable people are often the ones with whom you have the most in common.