The first thing
Janet sees in the art is her own reflection. The black-rimmed glass
captures the outline of her face, and the rectangles on the wall behind
her, and the chattering mouths of the couple heading towards the exit.
They bumped into each other at writer conferences —Atlanta, Chicago, New York, Denver. This last time, on the dance floor, bodies twisted in ways only writers might imagine; the both stood on the edge, agape.
The writers on the dance floor
tried and failed, again and again, to keep beat with “Superstition.”