The inelegant motion of his hands distorts the twirls of smoke sourced from his lit cigarette. He shoots his arm to the side and then before him, his elbow bending as his forearm cuts through the air repeatedly on the beat. His body rocks back and forth, head swaying side to side as the lyrics pour from his lips unabated. His eyes are closed more often than not, the private concert merely a reflection of the music’s power over him.
This moment is his, and his alone.
Up here on the rooftop he can stomp his feet against concrete the way he can’t do it in his apartment, where the creaky floorboards cause more trouble with the sour cow that lives below than he needs. If he wanted grief from a post-menopausal nutcase, he’d return his mother’s calls.
“—**** you gon' do?”
He rolls his wrist forward before hitting the next part of the verse with just as much feeling, cinder flying off the glowing tip of his forgotten-cigarette. Up here he is unburdened by social etiquette, and he doesn’t censor himself as the racial slurs and coarse words drop from his lips with uncanny precision. In another life, J. Reinhardt could’ve made a half-decent rapper.
The end of the verse has him pulling his arms towards him, elbows bent and brow furrowing. His passion is uncontainable, thoughts lost in a void as he gives himself completely to the song. No inch of his body is left unmoving, and though he lacks grace in his movements, his ability to pick up the rhythm is undeniable. The vulgarity that rolls off his tongue is part of a bigger whole, and his sway is proof there is more to the aggressive edge of the words. They echo across the empty space.
“First we gonna rock!”
—His hand slices through the air.
“Then we gonna roll!”
—He whirls his fingers and jabs the air once more.
“Then we let it pop!”
—He mimics an explosion, causing the cigarette to fly out from between his fingers. Dark eyes open in shock, the accident derailing his performance completely. He finds the cigarette by its glowing end, but something out the corner of his eye catches his attention before he can bend down to reach it.
When he screams, it’s short and shrill.
His hand briefly settles on his chest, a pointless gesture that does nothing to undo the compounded effect of adrenaline on his heart.
Reaching for his headphones, J. Reinhadrt turns towards the shadowed figure, trying to make out whether it is actually a person or merely a piece of architecture he’s forgotten about.
“You scared the bejesus out of me,” he states matter-of-factly, gaze darting to the extinguished cigarette on the floor.
Bejesus, a tame choice compared to the foulness he has engaged in thus far.
This moment is his, and his alone.
Up here on the rooftop he can stomp his feet against concrete the way he can’t do it in his apartment, where the creaky floorboards cause more trouble with the sour cow that lives below than he needs. If he wanted grief from a post-menopausal nutcase, he’d return his mother’s calls.
“—**** you gon' do?”
He rolls his wrist forward before hitting the next part of the verse with just as much feeling, cinder flying off the glowing tip of his forgotten-cigarette. Up here he is unburdened by social etiquette, and he doesn’t censor himself as the racial slurs and coarse words drop from his lips with uncanny precision. In another life, J. Reinhardt could’ve made a half-decent rapper.
The end of the verse has him pulling his arms towards him, elbows bent and brow furrowing. His passion is uncontainable, thoughts lost in a void as he gives himself completely to the song. No inch of his body is left unmoving, and though he lacks grace in his movements, his ability to pick up the rhythm is undeniable. The vulgarity that rolls off his tongue is part of a bigger whole, and his sway is proof there is more to the aggressive edge of the words. They echo across the empty space.
“First we gonna rock!”
—His hand slices through the air.
“Then we gonna roll!”
—He whirls his fingers and jabs the air once more.
“Then we let it pop!”
—He mimics an explosion, causing the cigarette to fly out from between his fingers. Dark eyes open in shock, the accident derailing his performance completely. He finds the cigarette by its glowing end, but something out the corner of his eye catches his attention before he can bend down to reach it.
When he screams, it’s short and shrill.
His hand briefly settles on his chest, a pointless gesture that does nothing to undo the compounded effect of adrenaline on his heart.
Reaching for his headphones, J. Reinhadrt turns towards the shadowed figure, trying to make out whether it is actually a person or merely a piece of architecture he’s forgotten about.
“You scared the bejesus out of me,” he states matter-of-factly, gaze darting to the extinguished cigarette on the floor.
Bejesus, a tame choice compared to the foulness he has engaged in thus far.
[♫]