Graceful Anger -5minutefreewrite(x3)

For https://steemit.com/freewrite/@mariannewest/the-weekend-freewrite-4-27-2019-part-3-the-dramatic-twist

"Then play, please," Jonny said. He sang "Dig my grave with a Silver Spade"...

And she played. She played like a violin was a bee that had been chasing her. Like she couldn't escape her instrument, but she was desperate to reach the end. And and and

Desperate.

There was a heat in her eyes that dried her tears. Jonny cooled his heels on the back of the furnace and crooned so soulfully, she thought she would burst from fear. The idea of a tree branch in the dark flitted through her mind, and she heard whispers of long dead sailors coming home to roost like robin red breast all a flitter flutter on the way home.

When he stopped singing, she breathed a sigh of relief and let her bow drop from the fiddle.

Jonny glanced her way, and her breast caught in her throat. Her heart jumped straight out of her mouth and scampered across the linoleum to the freezer, where it hopped inside, shivering and hiding, like a blue whale on the eve of its seventh birthday.

Grace Adler Stevenson was out of gas. And she was out of excuses. She couldn't stay chained to a piano leg in the kitchen anymore. She longed for the freedom of a cubicle. She longed for the day she could say goodbye to all the smiling children, and hello to a one-room tuna-smelling studio apartment.

In a rage, she puts her finger through her hair. Paul, who was waiting for a reaction, goes on.
"And then the kitchen becomes a living room."
Grace Adler Stevenson's rage simmers. It boils the flesh from Paul's face. She knows that her apartment, HER apartment has these features. Never let a new man into your life. If your father is a bum, who makes you play the violin, don't welcome a boyfriend later. They are all the same.

This one. This one. How can you let a man who has boots for shoes and hair for hair ask you on a date? The only men she could abide, prior to Paul, were ones who reminded her nothing of her daddy. Just the ones who wore dress shoes and had rugs for hair. Ones without an ounce of creativity. But here was Paul, imagining her apartment aloud for her.

Well, it was good that the rage came now when there was still time to kick him to the curb. So she did. Literally. There went his hat, too, falling slowly out the window after his rag doll of a body. She'd liked for her home to be on the first floor. Murder wasn't in her nature, but murderous rage was. So throwing a body out a window satisfied her, even when it was just a first floor window.

A twisted ankle was all he got. She had hoped each bone in his body would break. But at least a twisted ankle would cause him pain for a few hours, maybe even days if she was lucky. There were too many men walking without limps in the world.

She began to wonder about healthy obsessions. She'd read recently in a COSMO magazine that the world was getting hotter on the inside as well as the outside, and that the stars in the sky were getting harder and harder to see. She thought she might have a healthy obsession with science. And the mostly men who were writing these articles didn't make her mad. Sure, they benefited from the overall misogyny of society and STEM in particular, but they weren't individually awful. They were just people who loved a thing. Maybe. She'd need to meet them each to see if they were individually awful. Neil Degrassi Mike Tyson was. But he must be a special case. After all, he was also a celebrity, and celebrities were generally too powerful for their own good.

No, better check on the others. She went to UCLA. She had to burn it all down when she left because there were too many chauvinist pigs there, but while she was visiting, it was quite pleasant. She'd even had coffee with a woman who knew all about the trees on campus.