Rock Opera

My life is a rock opera composed by drunk people. On the plus side, the drunker they got, the more the cab driver looked like Elton John.
"Sing 'Tiny Dancer'," Henry kept saying, and the cab driver kept saying he'd do it at a red light. We must have gotten out before we hit another red light, because neither one of us remembers him singing anything.

So we got out and started walking back to the apartment when Henry's old landlady recognizes us and offers him a tissue for his nosebleed. Henry smiled and kissed both of her cheeks. I hid my face behind a newspaper so she wouldn't see my black eye.
"How have you been?" she asked.
"Still bad at painting," Henry said. "Still terrific at drinking."