As the cherry raspberry goodness slid down Sandra’s dry throat she found herself in instant pain; brain freeze to the max! The icy liquid stung her insides as it made its glacial escape down her esophagus. Sandra reverse arched her back trying to relieve the pain, like a contortionist made out of spaghetti. This was quite the feat to do so, since there was limited space in the little red leather booth that she and her Gibson guitar had currently occupied for the last 2 hours.
Her dark greasy hair hung heavily down under her grey beanie toque, masking her made up face, as she silently counted the change that she had found while rummaging in her little blue Honda’s sticky backseat. Soggy french-fries, questionable dust bunnies and coffee lids were just some of the treasures that her callused fingers had found as they anxiously searched for any monetary compensation to help fuel her current existence. $3.55 was left till payday or at least till she could find her next gig.
The horizon was a beautiful hazy purple that reminded her of the crocuses that emerge quietly, but mightily in the spring. Breaking their way through the crisp, fresh air; announcing their presence like the first bite of marshmallows on a clear night’s fire.
She peered out through the smoky window of the little diner, as the air filled with bacon and fries. A brilliant fire could be seen spitting and burning on the gleaming outside grill, as the burly chef flipped the dark charcoaled burgers that were eagerly anticipated by her fellow patrons, and their overflowing wallets. Sandra’s taut stomach started to grumble and ache, as not even the cool smoothie could satisfy its famished call.
The life of a starving artist, everyone had warned her. But that was before she had thrown caution to the wind and found herself gnawing down on the freedom to express. The road to find one’s self and one’s purpose ate at her soul, like a fat kid discovering the last donut in the box. Its allure was just too tempting.
Sandra’s mouth watered with anticipation as she found herself unsure of what her next move was. She had two options, use the quarters that she had scrounged up and call her parents, admitting defeat; or finish her drink. Bottom’s up, I guess, as she set down her glass before picking up her guitar, and taking a seat at the front of the room.
And with the strike of the chord, her soul had its first taste of what, Sandra hoped, would be a buffet of a lifetime.