If red could talk, it would speak of its emperor tyranny over nights on small planets with no oxygen or life; whose gloom it lit not brightly but slowly. Motions under a red sun weaken even Superman. If red could move, its motion would burn and blur. And maybe this is why the people who come to see Travis, the ones who think in silence, sit under red lights: to contemplate space without life. He does not know. Drenched in red are the souls of the quiet; the noise of their errant thoughts entrapped by cool postures that disdain words in favor of a music that suffers more pleasantly. At least when Travis plays, it can only ever be in the dark, red lights; orbiting jealous planets—red lights from the ceiling and red lights from the cigarettes that burn patiently. Patience is not the virtue of making time speed—it is patience that enjoys the wait. It’s those who are to be executed that smoke.

The darkness of the stage recedes when his set is done, in at least so much as it is there at all. He is ready to go. So, imagine his surprise when a pair of creamy, alluring legs come to stand before his downturned eyes, packing up his guitar. Instinct would normally dictate that he look up to see, but this night his instincts are pretty gone, and he finishes packing before looking up to meet the gaze of the owner of the legs. He looks up them, up past a black, short skirt, a periwinkle blue t-shirt, past a beautifully sculpted neck to—he smiles and says simply, “Melissa.”

She winks. “Well, I finally got to see you and know who you are at the same time.”

“Ta-da.”

She cocks her head, can see his spirits are down—as she had expected from listening to the show, loping and all. “I thought I would congratulate you. You sounded great.”

Travis feels a tinge of guilt for being glum. He knows this is no “acquaintance,” but he stands before her, toying with his guitar pick. He tosses it in the air playfully and catches it. “Sorry. That’s not a great one to end a show on.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly club music, but it was beautiful.”

Travis looks at his boots.

“Listen, what are you doing now?”

“Well, I don’t drink at the bars I play at, and I don’t play at the bars I drink at. So, I’m stuck not staying here.”

“I just thought I’d see if we were heading the same direction…” she leans her head to one side.

Travis is between glum and this girl. She wins. He smiles—the first time in hours. “Where you headin’?”

“283 actually.”

“Well, I could use some company.”

“Me too.”

The pair begin making their way to the stairs, and Travis stops by the bar to speak to Alex, the owner. “I’ll be by in the morning.”

“Yup,” Alex replies.

“You mind if I take a bottle of Sapphire with me?”

Reaching under the bar, Alex pulls out a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, setting it carefully on the counter, in front of Travis, he keeps his hand on the neck and says, kidding, “You didn’t make that much.”

“So sue me,” and he takes the bottle with a grin.

Alex smiles—eyeing Melissa, “See ya’ in the morning!”

Travis distracts her, “Look! Gin!”

She fakes excitement, oh so happy to carry the bottle, too. “Lovely.”

Travis waves to Alex and follows Melissa up the stairs, keeping his head down as her skirt tosses temptingly in front of him. She’s talking, oblivious, “That must be nice.”

“Oh, it gets better.”

“Oh really?”

They get out to the street, warm and wet still from sporadic showers. “Yeah, you’ll see.”

Taking out his cigarettes, Travis offers Melissa one. She takes it. He lights hers, then his own, and they walk to the corner of Thomas and Washington in silence. When they turn the corner, Melissa says, “I hope you don’t think that if I…” she pauses to word the sentence.

Travis thinks he finishes her thought. “No, I don’t. I really would just like someone to talk to for a little while—no strings. Just company.” They take a few more steps before Travis says, chipper, “Then we can have sex.”

Melissa laughs out loud, and then coughs on the smoke. Travis stops and turns while she tries to catch her breath. He can’t help but engage the schudenfreude before giving her a kitten pat on the back. She slaps him on the shoulder as she finishes out her last coughing fit. “Thanks!”

“Whatever. I know how to smoke.”

“Was that the better part?”

“Yeah,” Travis replies slowly, “But it gets even better!”

“That wasn’t better.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion.”

“Am I?”

“No. I just said that to be polite. You’re actually only entitled to my opinions.”

“So you don’t want mine?”

“Not really.”

“Cause you’re kind of lonely and it’s kind of sad.”

Travis stops, shocked, then incredulous. He turns to look at her on this dark side street.

Not phased, she asks “Why?”

“How could you—”

“That was you on stage, right?”

He waits.

“I was listening.” And after another moment, “And I’ve seen you before.” She looks up to the building tops, “Even though last time you sorta’ looked different.”

At first he’s defensive—wants to deny his state of mind to this stranger. But he looks at his boots and he knows it’s not pity. She just knows. And then, in the same instant, he wants to latch on to her; beg her to just hold him. Thank God or whatever! Somebody noticed that even in the midst of applause, cheers, lights and music, it was possible to be on an island, left behind. That hole in his boots is old, with strands pouring out, and after another moment of peering at it, he gets disgusted by that old crush stuff that’s got something to do with being on stage. She was listening because she knew the song, where those lonely chords were wandering off to. And when he looks, up from his boots, he can see sadness in her eyes, and he can see that she’s hoping to tell him about it. She didn’t just come to see the show. She came to see this show. This surrender show and him.

“That last song you played…” Melissa starts. Travis comes out of his thoughts and they match stares, “When did you write that?”

He nods and thinks about that vacant park—it was all there, wasn’t it? “Man. You really were listening.”

“I was just wondering. I guess I knew that. It was very—”

“Sad?”

“No.” She looks around at the windows that surround his face and then, “Empty.”

Travis’s face is blank, a mask. He didn’t think anyone would have heard that. They never did—not currents that deep. And he wasn’t sure anymore why he had disguised the words, seeing this beautiful girl really understand it anyway.

She turns, maybe hurt, maybe thinking. But a street light glints off her black hair—her raven black hair—and then he knows who she is.

“What do you know, Travis?”

“Not a lot.” Did he say that for the Rock Star? Would he normally say that?

“I don’t know why I bothered to ask.”

“Yee-aah.”

“Watchya’ havin’?”

Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. “Uh, boy… I dunno.”

Then a gravelly voice without the tint of radio or tape—which is shocking to Travis—says, “Gin and tonic.”

Travis looks, and sees that the man himself is holding up his glass with a smile. He gives away his hidden joy and beams. “What the man said,” he says to Harris.

The Rock Star says, “S’okay. If Harris here, says you’re okay, then you’re okay.”

Harris, mixing the drink, shakes his head, “He’s not okay.”

“Oh,” says the Rock Star. He drags on his cigarette. “Well… you play decent.”

Travis squints one eye, “I think you might have me confused…”

“Nah. I get around. S’my town, too, you know?”

Travis can’t deny it, and Harris gives him his drink. Beyond paying for it, Travis can’t do much but sit on his tongue.

“You got an album?”

“Uh…”

“Sorry, man—not to pressure you.”

“No, it’s fine. Honestly, most of the guys I know have at least one. I don’t know.”

The Rock Star smiles and scoffs. “Yeah, I know you.”

Travis looks perplexed.

“I mean, I know the guy you are—had a friend like that. Wouldn’t go in the studio. Hated it.”

“For real?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, I don’t what my problem is. It’s not the place… you know… the room. It’s not a phobia or anything.”

Leaning over to look over his sunglasses, the Rock Star makes a gesture—maybe catching something in a jar. “It’s trapping the sound.”

Resigned, Travis says, “Yeah.”

“S’cool, man. Not everyone wants to be famous or whatever.”

Was that the only way to get there? Travis hasn’t made the connection before. “It’s not really that. I just… uh… I hate the sound of a recording. It’s so… stuck. You can’t mess with it. It’s permanent.” The Rock Star laughs again—at what—the naiveté? Suddenly, Travis wonders if this guy could actually be an asshole.

“I love that, man. I really do. That’s soul. You got soul.”

Travis smiles.

“Le’me ask you this—do you even wanna’ go pro?”

“I guess.”

“Yeah, well, no offense, but if your answer is ‘I guess’ then you never will. Good or bad, you gotta’ want it. And it’s okay not to want it. Your talent is not defined by your success—most definitely not. Success, man, success has a price—don’t doubt it. But success also will give you the opportunity to do more with it. It does free you up. Shit. I don’t want to sound like a prick, but you know when was the last time I thought about paying a bill?”

Travis makes a must-be-nice face.

“Yeah. That was a dick thing to say. But all I really mean is that if you work hard, not play well—that’s kinda’ optional for a lot o’ people on the airwaves these days—but if you work hard, you get to a place where you don’t have to sweat the small stuff, and that’s not bad.”

“I think you’re right. I might be a little afraid of some hard work.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to imply that. I know your plan, man, because you love it right now. You’re gonna’ get better, a lot better, ’cause you do it with love.” The Rock Star laughs as he thinks back, “We did… we did.” He hangs out in the past a bit and then, “But you have to get better and you have to do it more, and it gets harder to love it. You might not think so, but sold out tours, city after unrecognizable city… the work isn’t playing it after a while. The work is lovin’ it. I can see anyone being a little apprehensive about that.”

“That—working to love it—is seriously frightening.”

“Yeah, but, I tell ya’—so far—it’s always come back around again—even when I thought I lost it. There’s really nothing to be afraid of.”