Bitter fucking irony, right there.
I check my phone. Check the clock.
Tell myself I'm not waiting for her.
The restlessness builds until I can't sit still anymore.
I end up back in the studio with the whiskey, and this time I drink it. The burn helps, a little.
I find myself reaching for the leather-bound notebook on the shelf. The one I haven't opened in two years. The one with half-finished lyrics and chord progressions and ideas that went nowhere.
I sit down at the desk, uncap a pen, and stare at the blank page.
Nothing comes.
Of course nothing comes. Why would tonight be any different than the last seven hundred and thirty nights?
I close the notebook.
Then I grab my whiskey and head out to the pool, needing to burn off whatever the hell this feeling is.
My phone buzzes, and it’s embarrassing how quickly I grab it to see if Sadie’s texted me.
And she has. It’s a ten second video of the band playing on stage at Sutton’s. They’re playing a cover of one of my songs. Doing a decent-enough job of it too.
She texts:
You should come down. Blow the barn doors off the place with a lil surprise appearance.
I text back:
They're doing fine without me.
Sounds like you’re being chickenshit to me.
My lips quirk. Never one to let me off the hook easy.
I text again:
Sutton’s only pays in beer and jukebox tokens. I don’t leave the house for any gig that doesn’t cover my property taxes.
Or any gig at all, these days.
So you're just going to sit there and let them butcher your song?
They're not butchering it. Singer’s a little pitchy, though.
See? You're listening. Just come down.
Nah.
She sends back a series of emojis that might as well be hieroglyphs. A rooster? Poop?
Ah. She’s calling me chickenshit again.
Brat.
I shake my head. Lean back in my chair. Listen to the crickets. I’m tempted, only because Sadie’s the one inviting me. I could go down there. Hang out with her, even if I have no intention of getting anywhere near a stage again.
