The waterfall

She sat in a corner, curled up. The cigarette lay on the ash tray with an amber glow to it. The embers so orange, so alive; the smoke hovered over it and danced. The room was full. It was bazaaresque almost in its character. The noise had reached an intolerable crescendo an hour back but then dived into an odd melody. Bowler hats and black jackets. Short dresses and darkened eyes. The smoke lingered in the air. It hung over everyone’s head, snaking and rising into shapes portentous.

She waved at him. He came over with yet another cup of tea. This time he hesitated as he placed the cup on the table. He stole a glance as he picked up the remnants of an evening behind him. He looked at her again.

She sat, curled up still, the wall her friend. She stared into distant space. Tears welled up in her eyes. It had been days since she put ink to paper. What had happened? What had snapped that she couldn’t write anymore? What should she turn to for answers? Nothing came. Her mind was blank. Nothing helped. She sat and stared.

Then from somewhere sneaked in a beat. A riff. The sweet sound of piano. It reverberated through the floor, through her body. It brought melody to her feet. But more importantly, it brought back words to her mind. She closed her eyes and the sounds did something. She could see again. Somewhere, a waterfall that had a story to tell. She got up and left.