His Song
One
The things I put up with, Krish Rajendra thinks, glancing around the darkened coffeehouse. The crowd’s his age but this was never his scene—art students with multi-colored hair, poets in dark jeans and black turtlenecks, aspiring writers chatting about Kerouac and Ginsberg over cappuccinos. Give him a sports bar any day, Monday night football on the tube, Aerosmith on the jukebox, beer sloshing out of cold mugs and peanuts on the floor. None of this candlelight s**t, or the heavy scent of espresso that hangs like rain in the air, or the Bob Dylan wanna-bes up on the small stage, taking turns on the open mike with their acoustic guitars and whiney songs. Why is he here again?
Dane.
Krish lets his gaze wander around the room until he sees Jude Danelian, twenty-three and his
