He decides to wait to say hello so as not to get recruited into unloading gear. Stretching out on the hill, he relaxes and watches clouds, letting the air of anticipation linger. It is his favorite time, the next—the time before the Thing—whatever it is—that’s going to happen. It is the moment before walking out on stage. It is the moment before he strums. It is the moment before the kiss. It is the threat to time—the infinite present. He is never nervous when he senses something afoot, the reversal of the equilibrium, the change in the tide—he’s ecstatic—the next is everything—because once the change comes, it will be over.

“What then?” Melissa asks curiously.

“What then what?”

“What are you doing at the end of the month?”

“Moving.”

“Moving!?”

“Yeah.”

“Where!?”

“‘Cross town,” Travis waves his hand in the general direction of Karen’s house.

“Oh.” Melissa breathes a sigh of relief. “I thought you meant you were moving away.” “No.” Travis says simply. After a moment of rolling the words around in his head, wondering if he should say it, he says, “Would it matter?”

Melissa stops in her tracks. She gives Travis a look that means he should know better than to have asked. She keeps walking and says, “Yes. It matters.”

They coast on small talk the rest of the way downtown, and when they get to the corner of College and Broad, Travis doesn’t know how to say goodbye, standing in front of his bike. She’s made up her mind to walk home instead, asking for a rain check on the bike ride, though. Travis jams his hands in his hip pockets and says, “There’s this party tonight…”

Melissa shakes her head lightly. Travis feels like she’s already walking down the street. “Not for a while, Travis, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I just need to get back to things, um, settle some things…”

“I guess I’ll see you around then.”

She gives in against her better judgment and steps close to him. She leans in and kisses him on the corner of his lip. After she does they look at each other. “I know where to find you. And I will” Then, she turns and walks away, leaving Travis standing next to Mary Jane with his hands still jammed in his pockets.

“I’m not telling you.”

“What’s it matter? I’m gonna’ see it in an hour. You’re not suddenly going to be embarassed in an hour are you?”

“That’s the point,” Melissa replies.

“Well, is it something you said or was it somebody famous.”

She smiles. “Somebody who will be famous.”

“I hope you didn’t quote me.”

“Why?”

“That would be a bit pretentious, don’t you think? My own words on my bedroom wall?”

“No. It’s in my handwriting. That makes it okay.”

“It does?”

“Yes.”

“What standards board declared this?”

Melissa thinks about it. “The Graffiti and Scrawled Quote Board of Etiquette.” Duh.

“Okay.”

“I thought you’d be touched.”

“Depends on what I said. I’m the one who’s gonna’ have to look at it for the rest of the month.”

“You’ll like it. Shut up.”

“No sweat.”

“You know your room is much more… interesting in the daylight.”

Travis peers over his shoulder. “The wall?”

She walks down the length of the mural, “This is impressive.”

Travis is still standing with a plate of eggs and a glass of orange juice, “You have to split it with me.”

She hesitates and then steps over to him and looks at the plate. “You’re very sweet.” Then she says, “But I’m not hungry.”

Travis set the glass down, picks his fork up, cuts a bite and holds it out to her. He feels like he’s offering food to a wild animal in a strange place, clearly unsure of the situation now that it’s morning. She takes the fork out of his hand and eats the bite. After chewing for a moment, self-consciously, she swallows and remarks, “Not bad.” Then she takes the plate out of his hands and sets it on the dresser. Turning to him, she leads him to the bed and half pushes, half tackles him on to it. They lay together for a while. She kisses him, lightly, on the lips, and settles back on her pillow and says, “This is a nice t-shirt.”

“I’m glad you like it. That’s all I got.”

Wrinkling her nose, Melissa asks, “You mean you only own one t-shirt?”

“No, no, no. I meant I don’t own any other kinds of shirts. Sorry.”

“Oh.”

Travis looks back to his closet. “I don’t have much use for anything but t-shirts, I guess.”

She wraps her arms under him, and her embrace is hot. After a moment of laying still, she rubs his head and says, “You’re cuddly.”

“Thanks.” Travis shuts his eyes and lapses into a thoughtless state after a few minutes—he smiles when he thinks cosmoblatarific meditation. He wants to just absorb the feeling of being held and hang onto it because he can tell it’s passing. She needs time and space to be alone with what she had finally gotten out last night.

He does not notice as he drifts off into sleep. His dreams are waking ones, vivid. All the colors in the dream are saturated and stark, grainy shades of nothing but yellows and browns. There is a field and shapes lean at odd angles; fence posts. The feeling of his own feet on the ground is imperceptible. He can here a concert playing faintly in the distance. But as soon as he begins to try to go to it, to grasp where and who he is, he awakens with a start.

“You all right?” Melissa asks.

“Yeah. Sorry. Drifted off there.”

She rubs his back with her hand. “Fall down some stairs?”

Travis rolls over and smiles—looks at her sincerely, and says, “Fell off a merry-go-round.”

“That’s odd.”

“Tell me about it.”

There is a pause for a few minutes, and then Travis says, “I need to get downtown pretty soon.” After having woken from the dream, he feels anxious.

“That’s fine.”

“You can stay here if you want. I’ll go get my bike, and then I can take you to your car.”

“You’re gonna’ take me on your bicycle?”

“No, motorcycle.”

“Oh!”

Travis laughs at the vision of trying to balance her on his handlbars. For some reason, the vision involves him wearing thick glasses, talking with a nasel voice, wearing a bow tie.

“You have a motorcycle?”

“You knew that,” Travis says.

“No I didn’t.” She is visibly excited.

“Welp. I do.”

“That’s so cool!” Melissa’s voice rises in pitch. “I get to ride on a motorcycle!”

Travis loves the excitement, loves the vicarious joy he gets from new riders.

“That so figures.”

“What?”

“That you would have a motorcycle.”

“What? I’m a stereotype?” Travis replies indignantly. “That’s insulting.”

“Yeah, but it’s true.” Melissa lists the following items on her fingertips, “Guitar, musician, only wears t-shirts—and probably leather when its cool out—motorcycle.” She raises her eyebrows, having presented her airtight case.

“You forgot boots.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Black boots.”

“Okay, okay. Whatever. I give.”

Melissa is smiling at a private joke practically breaking out from between her pearly teeth.

“What?” Travis asks, waiting for a punch line.

“No… nothing.”

“What?”

She sighs and puts her hand out, lightly touching his nose with her index finger. He tries to look at it as she speaks. “You’re a cowboy.” She smiles, brilliantly, having said it. “Happy now?”

He says, “Good morning.”

“Nooo.” She snuggles down into the covers and pulls them over her head. “Go away.”

Travis puts his arm under the pillow and lays his head back down.

Peeking out from beneath the covers, Melissa giggles. “I woke up at about four this morning and was halfway tempted to leave, but I didn’t know where the hell I was.”

Travis makes a face. “You were gonna’ ditch me?”

Melissa nods fecitiously, the comforter wrapped around her like a shawl. Then she smiles more sweetly and says, “I’m not used to just going home with complete strangers.”

“Oh, I see. I’m, like, totally used to that.”

“Oh really?”

“Oh yeah. I’m a slut.”

Melissa bats her hand out for a moment, long enough to make contact with Travis’s shoulder, and then slides back underneath the covers.

“What? I said I’m a slut. How can you possibly take offense?”

“You were implying that I was one.”

“I was not.”

“I was kidding anyway.” Melissa giggles again, and then brings her head up out from under the covers for a moment to listen more closely to a very strange sound emanating from the living room. Travis hears it too, and before Melissa can ask, he replies, “No, no. Hide, hide.” He slides underneath the comforter, and without really thinking about it, Melissa does the same.

“What are we hiding from?” she asks the darkness between their noses.

Travis can feel her breath, and replies in the general direction of the question, the Screamewling Fuzzfart. He can feel Absynthe leap up on the bed, make his way across the mattress, little bastard, walking up Travis’s leg. After a moment, Absynthe crosses the bed and tests his weight on Melissa’s thighs.

“Oh my god!” Melissa hollers and squiggles around in the bed, shifting up against Travis. She had thought Travis was kidding about something coming for them.

With all the sudden movement, Absynthe takes his cue to jump off the bed. He sits on the floor, and starts screaming his lungs out.

“Relax,” says Travis. “I was just kidding around. It’s just my roomate’s cat.”

Melissa looks around the bed for the cat, and hears it screaming from the floor. She pulls herself over the side to look at it. “I thought it was a rat or something.” As soon as she looks at the kitten though, the cat screams at her. “Aw…” Melissa replies, “I think we hurt it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Travis says. “He does that every morning.”

Melissa looks perplexed as Absynthe screams again. She sits up in the bed and looks at Travis. “Are you serious?”

“For ten minutes, you watch. It’s a God damn ritual or something.”

By the time Absynthe screams a third time, Melissa catches on. “Oh my God. That’s awful.” She looks at the kitten as it claws its way back up to the top of the bed, sits down and lets out a disheartening, “Eeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyaaaa-aaahhhhhhhhh!”

“Aw…” Melissa’s sympathy’s are renewed. “It just wants attention.” Travis just rolls his eyes as she reaches out to pick the kitten up. It promptly falls on its back and claws vigrously at the approaching hand with all four paws. Melissa pulls her hand back quickly. “Good Lord.”

“Told ya’.”

Absynthe rolls on his side and stretches lazily, using all of his relaxed muscles to push forth yet another scream, followed by two more quiet ones, a little unsure of something, directed at the opposite end of the bed. Travis sits up, bows his legs out underneath the comforter, picks Absynthe up despite protest, and folds his legs and comforter around the kitten. Absynthe screams from inside the soft bear trap, but the noise is pleasantly muffled.

“I only do this when I have guests or a hangover,” Travis reassures Melissa, who is already laughing. “What?” Travis asks.

“I’ve never heard anything like that.”

Travis rolls his eyes. “I’ve only been having to put up with it lately because Nick’s gone. He usually gets up before I do.”

“What did you do to it?”

“Nothing! I swear! It just started doing it one morning, and now it always does it.”

“Probably because you fed it, and now it thinks it has to do that to get fed.”

“No. Even when you give him food he won’t stop.”

“Really?”

“Really. As soon as he hears that someone’s awake, he starts, and then about ten minutes later, he stops.”

Melissa laughs again.

“It’s not funny,” Travis says desperately.

“It’s hysterical.”

“It’s punishment.”

“For what?”

“I wish I knew. I would fix it. I swear I would.”

Melissa shrugs.

“Watch this,” Travis says. He puts his hands on either side of the clam shell trap that he’s made with the comforter, and waits for Absynthe to scream again. As soon as the cat does, Travis pushes it back and forth, making the scream vibrate like an engine.

“Stop. Stop it.”

“He doesn’t mind,” Travis replies.

“That’s terrible. Quit it.” The request sounds genuine the second time, and so Travis stops in mid-shake.

“He really doesn’t mind,” he says, and opens his legs, revealing a much enthused Absynthe on his back, trying to claw his way out of the cave. Picking the cat up underneath the forearms, Travis lifts Absynthe whose body stretches down lazily beneath him, long and sleek. Absynthe blankly looks around the room with wide eyes and then screams at the wall near the bed. “See?” Travis offers. Melissa looks at the cat distastefully at first, but then, it’s a kitten and she pets him. Absynthe lets her this time.

Travis puts the kitten down and after accepting a few more friendly scratches, Absynthe walks out of the room without a sound.

“Is he done?” Melissa asks.

“Yup. That’s it. Next show’s tomorrow morning.” For a moment, he wants to ask her if she’ll be there, but then they both sit upright, facing the doorway, confused. Neither has any idea of what they are supposed to now. “You want some breakfast?” Travis asks.

Melissa hesitates, feeling that maybe she should just leave.

Seeing her reaction, Travis says simply, “It was just sleeping. It’s just breakfast.”

“All right,” Melissa replies and she starts to get up.

“No, no. My treat. Stay in bed and sleep some more. I’ll just be ten minutes.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you, then?” Melissa asks.

Travis shrugs. It seems too easy. “I guess.”

She has relief in telling him this: “You’re not alone.” She wants to lean on him, but, leaning toward him, holds off.

He waits a long time to respond, sure she’s finished. “I think that a lot of things have been bothering me—a lot of them over and over again. I’m not sure I’m gonna’ put it together for a long while. But, a good start would be what happened to you when I met you at the Engine Room that night.”

“Oh that? That was nothing—my Dad and I got into a fight.”

Travis nods.

She waits a while before she says, “He’s actually still not speaking to me.” Then, she rolls her eyes.

“He’s not speaking to you?”

Melissa nods.

“Well, that’s a quick way to resolve a dispute.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it,” and it’s her turn to look a long time into the mirror.

She looks like she’s going to spill. She jostles, trying to keep her balance, keep it from all coming out. Taking a drag off her cigarette, slowly, she says, swallowing hard, getting over shame, hoping she can trust him, “I got pregnant.”

There’s another long moment between them of sipping, smoking, looking around. Travis is thankful for the bluesy jazz, even though it’s probably not helping things. She starts up again, “I had been dating this guy for a year and a half, and I got pregnant.”

The jazz plays on as Travis smokes his cigarette and scenes of Melissa and her father screaming at one another over the phone abracadabra in his head. He sees vague images of her boyfriend, frightened, scared, probably too young to take responsibility—probably too stupid. He sees Melissa in a white, dirty room in a white gown, by herself, waiting. He thinks about how there was no relationship, no support, after reality set in—and it dawns on him how she feels more alone than he can biologically understand. He listens to a muted trumpet transcribe all of this into something sensible for himself—he wishes he had some way to show her, but music solves only so much—humans do the rest. He gathers himself and takes a breath and focuses on her, her waiting porcelain face, staring at the table. Leaning in and taking her hand he says simply, “I’m sorry.”

“I just… what you said about enjoying the sadness…”

“I only meant—”

“No, no, no—that’s the thing, though—tonight. I had it for a moment—I didn’t care, Travis—listening to you. It was gone. I knew it before—before all of this—before we met. That pledge song. I knew it, Travis—” she tears up “—before everyone I loved went away—” She looks at him haplessly, “Everyone! What did I do?” She tries to hold it in, but can’t. The tears come out. She’s sniffing and taking a drink napkin off the table. The arc of her small, tight lips break and the corners collapse toward her chin as tears poor down her face. “I didn’t do anything!”

Travis holds on to her hand tightly. If he can absorb every ounce of pain, her sorrow, her shame, he will. He can’t. He holds her hand.

Melissa tries hard to straighten up for this or that, public or private, friend or stranger, but as she stoically, bravely, tries to hold back tears, she is falling apart at the seams. “I… uh…” She wipes her eyes and blinks. She’s too tired of crying to cry anymore. Months—months have gone by. She has cried and cried and cried. She wants it to end. She looks at Travis in complete indecision. She squeezes his hand until his knuckles turn white, and the corners of her mouth are forced down again. Another tide of sadness—of relief this time—comes over her. She rolls her eyes up and tears make paths down her cheeks like the last trickles on the dam of a dried up river, reflecting the candlelight on the table. “I… just…” “It’s okay.”

She wipes her face, holds his arm a little closer, looks out to the bar, and then back to him in the mirror, pleading for him to let her out. “I just don’t want to be alone right now. I-I thought you would understand somehow.”

He leans over, pulls her in. “I do—I understand—sort of—but…” Without urgency, he pulls her black locks, her head, to his shoulder, his hand pressed against the back of her head. Pride resists, but after a moment, Travis can feel her shudders and warm saline dripping down his neck. Mostly he thinks, God damn her father, God damn her man. And then, Melissa brings her head up, almost head butting him, her tears still shimmering gems on her face. Travis wipes away a few from her magnolia colored cheeks with his thumb, and says, “Listen, we can go somewhere safe. We’ve been drinking and we shouldn’t drive, but you’ll be okay with me. I’ll get you to a bed and get you to sleep and I promise it’ll look better in the morning. You don’t have to be alone.”

A little after that, for one mile and a half, three thousand, four hundred and forty-seven hand-held steps, mostly through quiet, dark tree groves and sidewalks of the University, neither of them say a word.

“Oh!” he says, acting surprised. “This is where it gets better!”

“I’m afraid.”

“Nah.”

As they move inside, they are pleasantly surprised to find that the bar reflects their moods. Mostly green, mostly empty, and mostly jazz, though at the intersections of these sensory dimensions there is clear room for turning them all up if desired. The bar seems to be quietly nodding off to sleep; with restless talk.

Travis sets his guitar case against the bar, and gently grabbing the gin bottle from Melissa, he puts it up on the bar. “How about two Sapphire and tonics, Harris?”

Harris says, “How was the show?”

“Welllll. It was a special night,” and he winks at Melissa, who blushes.

“Excellent.”

Melissa asks, “This is when it gets better?”

“Well… it’s free.”

Melissa crushes one eye in disapproval. “Girls always drink for free.”

“Only the pretty ones.”

She slaps his shoulder.

“Well, what did you think ‘better’ meant?”

“I didn’t think it meant me carrying the bottle,” rolling eyes, crossing her arms.

“La tee da.”

With the drinks they sit down to a quiet, padded booth; a semi-circular alcove off from the bar, off from the speaker, but opposite from a large wall-length mirror, which makes for flirtatious games of glances.

“Do you live off of your shows?”

“Nope”

“So what, do you have a job or something?”

“Uh. Nope.”

“Must be nice.”

“Well, I shouldn’t say I have no job. I do stuff to get money. It’s just not exactly like work.”

“That sounds clandestine.”

Innocently, “Clandestine?”

“You ‘do stuff’? That’s not supposed to sound like you’re in the mob or something?”

Travis smiles and lights a cigarette as coyly as he can. “Can’t tell ya’.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Strictly top secret.”

“So what? Am I going to get shot hanging around with you?”

“What!? No, no—nothin’ dangerous. Stupid stuff.”

“I’m safe then?” She’s actually serious.

“Seriously? I’m hardly dangerous. You’re really worried?”

Quietly, “You know, I don’t actually know who you are.”

“Look, I’m not exactly proud of it—I mean, I am really proud of it—for pulling it off…”

She waits for him to gather his words, in disbelief that there’s actually some kind of underbelly.

“I make fake IDs.”

It takes a second and then she guffaws.

“Hey, it’s… you know… kinda’ serious.”

“Oh yeah. You’re a real don.”

Melissa spins her straw in her drink for a minute, thinking about something. Travis lets her, smoking his cigarette. “It’s kind of funny,” she starts, and then pauses again, debating whether to say what she is thinking. “I’ve been going to the Engine Room a lot.”

Travis nods seriously. “That is strange.”

“No.” She pats his arm, thankful for his playfulness. But she says like he should know, “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah?” She looks at him until he looks back and then she holds his stare for a moment.

“Oh.”

“It’s just—” she replies—another thing he should already know. “We never finished what we started.”

“Oh yeah,” Travis replies, looking out into the mirror opposite the table.

She looks at the mirror, into his reflection’s eyes, “Exactly.”

Smiling, he turns back to the real Melissa and says, “I’m not sure I’m the same person I was when you met me.” He gets quiet, “Hell, I think I knew you before I knew you.”

Leisurely, sipping from her glass, she says, “Talk.”

“I don’t know. Something’s been eating at me.”

“Did something happen to you?”

“What? Bad?”

“Yeah.”

Travis laughs. “Nothing bad ever happens to me.” But then slumps a bit. “Nothing actually bad.”

“Nothing?”

“You know, there’s bad, tragic, and then there’s just unfortunate.”

Crossing her arms, Melissa inquires, “And how do you keep bad things from happening to you, Mr. Fleeting?”

“Well, Miss…?”

“Keller.”

Travis nods. Melissa Keller. “Well, Miss Keller, when something bad happens to me, I enjoy it. Voilá.”

Melissa giggles. God, she thinks it’s stupid but she giggles. Travis is an amateur magician, declaring his vanishing trick amazing after throwing the coin under the table with a loud clank. She can’t make light of her thoughts, but she’s glad he can.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Musing, Melissa ventures another question, skeptical, “Then why such an empty song, Travis?”

He looks down at the table, then the mirror, tries to smile at her, but can’t. It’s so simple, so easy, so hard, so trivial, but all real. When he looks up, Melissa does not recognize his face. The cheeks are hollow, the jaw line slack, no smile. He looks at her with a plea in his eyes and speaks as quickly as he can, “I’m alone.”

Melissa touches his arm. Shocking him with her touch, almost from out of the mirror, proof of the moment, “Maybe more people are listening than you think.”

Travis looks at her hand on his arm. “No. It’s not who’s listening. I mean, it’s who’s listening, but… I have to love them. It needs to be my friends. I don’t want my love to become some kind of disheveled work—some kind of fame.” —the horror— “It’s not my place.” A warmth comes over him, an old anger and the warmth of defiance against the judges. His own words surprise him then, as the music so often does. “My place among the stars is reserved. I will cry for all eternity there, but not while I am still alive.”

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.

“You have to say stupid,” Dizzy said. “Remarkably stupid,” Kristin added. “Remarkably stupid?” Travis asked. “I think atrocious vomit would be more appropriate,” Nick added. “No, no,” Kristin disagreed. “Atrocious is too mean. It’s just stupid.” Dizzy agreed, “Yeah, if it was a bad evening gown, you could say atrocious. But that’s just a shirt.” Kristin, “A stupid shirt.” “Okay, okay,” Travis relented, “Remarkably stupid.” He stood up and made his way over to the table across the bar, tapped Bobby on the shoulder, and regretted it the moment that he did because when she turned around finally he could see she was adorable. He sighed, “I’m here to tell you that that’s a stupid shirt.” Bobby looked stunned for a moment and then asked above the noise, “What?” because she was really sure she’d not heard Travis correctly. “I’m sorry.” He snapped his fingers—remembering the ‘remarkably’ part again. “I mean, I’m supposed to tell you that it’s a remarkably stupid shirt.” She stared hard at him, let him sweat, calmly observing his facial expression. There was something objective about it, as though what he had said was not to be taken personally. He could just as easily have said, “You are a girl,” or “You have brown hair.” But he’d definitely said that her shirt was remarkably stupid. And she couldn’t see the point. Travis turned slowly to look over to his table for help. Nick, Daphne and Kristin were all smiles. Nick mimed a drinking motion and gives Travis a thumbs up. When he turned back, expecting a face full of her hand, he was shocked to see Bobby smiling. She shrugged, “It’s my boyfriend’s shirt.”

It was a month and a half later that Bobby leaned on the bar next to Travis and inquired with a challenge, “What’s your name?”

A picture of her gigantic boyfriend standing right behind them popped into his head. *Oh well, here we go.* “Asshole. Asshole Fleeting.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Asshole. I’m Bobby.” “Travis.” “OK.” “And I am really sorry if I embarrassed you or something. It was just a stupid dare.” “No. It’s fine. I mean, even for a dare it was kind of lame.” She lets that sink in. “But it was a stupid shirt.” Travis shrugged. “I didn’t really think so.” “Uh. That’s not exactly what you said.” “Long story.” Bobby nodded. “So I can wear it out again with approval?” “Only if you want me to tell you how stupid it is again.”

It was another two weeks before Travis saw Bobby at a party and they had a normal conversation about things other than dares and stupid clothing. And now, today, “So are you picking on the bartender or picking her up?”

“As a matter of fact…” he looks to see that the girl is out of earshot. “I’ve been regaling her with stories from my childhood.”

“I bet they’d be really scary.” Bobby says, nodding. Turning to her friends behind her she says, “Travis, this is Josh and Aaron.”

Travis shakes their hands in turn from his stool. “Hey,” he says, wondering to himself which of the two is inevitably chasing after Bobby. After she left her boyfriend with the apparently terrible fashion sense, she could always be found with a harem of guys.

“You here by yourself?” asks Bobby.

“Me and my best friend, Beer.” The bartender, who had come over to get orders from Bobby’s crew, makes a disapproving face.

“We were just gonna’ play some pool.”

“You know, that sounds good, but I was planning on catching a band at the Theater.”

“Okay, Asshole, suit yourself. But come to a party at our apartment complex Saturday.”

Josh chimes, “It’s gonna’ be huuuge, dude.”

“Seems kinda’ dead in town for a party.”

“Trust me. We got three bands and twenty kegs comin’. All night Saturday and as long as we can go on Sunday. They even got noise permits for the bands.”

“All right, then. See ya’ there.”