Every now and again, Michelle will come home from work a little on edge. I can usually tell by the glint in her eyes that it wasn’t the rough day at the office that caused this edginess; 
it usually means that something was played on the radio that reopened some chapter in her life that I try my best to believe never happened.
Last night was one of those nights. She came home, hurriedly set her bag down, absently kissed me hello and disappeared upstairs. After a few minutes, she rushed back down stairs, turned on the stereo and hollered, “Frank, come out here!”
This is never a good sign.
Sure enough, moments later I heard a beat thump out of the speakers which reeked of “eighties”. Within seconds, Michelle was jumping around the room (which, under these circumstances, can hardly be referred to as “dancing”) and belting lyrics into her thumb (which, under these circumstances, acts as her microphone). This went on for seven very long songs, each cheesier than then last, and all of them interrupted with shouted comments like, “This music is all about the SMOOTH LOVE!” or “You just can’t SIT STILL when this is playing!”
How this can be the same person who has been Raging Against the Machine since ‘92 and who has been to more AC/DC concerts than my brother and I combined is beyond me.
