Not Rocket Science

So it's been two months since my last post.

I'm not going to call myself busy.

I'm not going to make any other lame excuse.

I'm Lazy. But hopefully my blog will sprout forth into something beautiful, and everyone will forget the two months of nothing.

Or maybe it will be two months before my next post.
And if anyone knows how to make indents work here on the internet, I would greatly appreciate knowing.

Now back to an engaging narrative

Not Rocket Science
By Robin Zemek

“Yeah, I’m pretty artsy.”
Monica spun around the apartment slowly, soaking it all in.
“Did you paint that?” she asked, pointing.
“That’s a Van Gough, I’m not that artsy.”
“Oh.”
She strolled through the room, her high heels clicking on the floor.
“It’s big.”
I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Sometimes being artsy pays.”
“About as often as being sexy pays, huh?”
“You should know.”
Her eyes darted into me.
“Very funny, artist.”
She walked up to the stereo and started looking through my CD collection.
“I’m not an artist, I’m just artsy.”
“So you’re really some soulless hack sitting at a desk living vicariously through your... art?”
“I don’t make art. I enjoy art.”
“So you are a soulless hack.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I can tell by your CDs how much soul you have.”
“Does a man with more soul music have more soul?”
Her giggle reverberated around the room.
“No. It’s the emotion. The beat. The tenderness.”
“And that gives you insight into my soul?”
“You got a better way?”
I shrugged.
“You like The Clash?”
I couldn’t lie, she was sifting through my music collection, my soul apparently.
“Not really.”
“You got three of their albums and you don’t like them?”
“You couldn’t assume that I liked them just by the fact that I had three?”
“I had to ask, their music doesn’t fit your pattern.”
“My pattern? I have a pattern now?”
“No. But you have no taste either. I guess that’s a pattern.”
“Is their anything scientific about your evaluation of my soul?”
“Since when is the soul scientific? I’m not going to give it a number, or a grade,” she smiled, “unless you want one.”
“Only if it’s a good one, a failed soul wouldn’t look good on a resume.”
She chuckled.
“You seem pretty tender.”
“Tender? Is that like slang for cool?”
“No. It’s tender. Like, sweet, or soft.”
“So I’m tender?”
“Yes.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“It’s better to be tender and artsy than just artsy. Just being artsy makes you a prick.”
“So now I’m a tender prick?”
“I guess.”
“You guess?”
“It’s not rocket science, it’s soul searching.”
I propped my feet up on the coffee table.
“You done soul searching? Want a drink?”
She sat down on the couch next to me.
“I guess.”
“What’s your poison?”
“Just get me a beer.”
I pulled two beers from the cooler in the coffee table. She took hers with a look of shock.
“Coolest coffee table ever.”
“I know. Made it myself.”
“So I guess being artsy pays.”
“No. This is more where my engineering degree pays.”
“But it makes you seem more artsy.”
“But apparently being artsy makes me a prick...”
“A prick with a damn cool coffee table... and a tender prick.”
“Should I put on some of my music?”
“Nah, I didn’t really like any of it.”
“But you said it was tender.”
“But I never said I liked it. You just assumed since it was tender.”
“Don’t you like tender?”
“Maybe in a person, not in a rhythm. I want something with bass.”
“Want a person with bass too?”
“Maybe.”
She took a sip of her beer. I watched her for a moment and took a swig of mine.
“You know what I like about you?” she said.
“My coffee table?”
She laughed.
“Besides that.”
“I have no idea. You really threw me off with the whole CD collection being the window to my soul thing.”
“Yeah...”
“In my defence, my soul has significantly less glam rock.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”