As soon as the flashing hand gave us permission, we crossed over, and the landscape around us transformed into what could have been downtown in any other city. All the buildings were taller and statelier than I would have expected so far from Manhattan. Cars flew along beside us now.
Shane kept the conversation going. “So, I’m a drummer, right?”
“Right.”
“When I was a kid, my parents took me to see The Police on a reunion tour.”
“Wow. How was it?”
“Stewart Copeland had this incredible drumkit. I mean, it looked like a middle school’s entire percussion section surrounded him.” I’d let go of his arm when we’d crossed the street, and now his hands flew passionately to somehow paint the picture of his words. “He attacked those drums like a madman. It was insane.”
“Is that why you took up drums?”
“No, I’d been playing in the school band, but that sort of woke me up to the possibilities. I’d never paid that much attention to The Police before that honestly, but after that, I collected it all.”
“So, are you all about John Bonham?”
He’d picked up the pace since we’d started talking about drummers, and he practically bounced on his toes now. “John Bonham, Neil Peart, Keith Moon. If you hang out with me for long, you’ll get sick to death of The Who.”
I laid a hand over my heart. “I could never get sick of The Who.”
“I think I might love you.” He spun around and walked backward long enough to ask, “Your turn. Who’s your favorite band?”
Kaboom. I had one more trick up my sleeve. “Right this minute? Theater of the Absurd.”
My accompanying smile was meant to be equal parts coy vixen and flirtatious scamp, but his lips pinched together for half a beat. It was so subtle, I might have missed it, but I’d been tracing those gorgeous lips with my eyes. When they pursed together, he looked for the first time like I’d said something wrong.
Maybe I’d dodged right into a different grenade
“Kidding.” Shit was that worse? “I mean, like I said before, I’m obviously a fan, but I’ve seen Adam’s band more often than yours.” Truth at least.
He turned to walk forward, the frenetic energy lost, like a popped balloon with the helium leaking out. He side-eyed me. “You’ve seen us more than once?”
Wow, I was digging a grave. “Well, yeah. You put on an amazing show.”
He nodded. “Damn straight we do.”
I hoped it meant I’d hit the right balance finally.
We’d been walking for what seemed like forever already, but it was probably only twenty minutes. In front of a Macy’s, I stopped to tie my shoe, and he asked, “Do you want me to call a cab?”
Had I made him want to bail. “How much farther?”
“Thirty minutes, maybe?”
And the cab ride would likely be five minutes, and then we’d say goodnight, and I might never see him again. “Let’s keep walking.”
For the next few blocks, he moved us to a safer conversation topic. “Favorite musician from before we were born.”
That was territory I could navigate endlessly. “My dad would want me to say Clapton. Hence the name. But hands down Bowie.”
His smile returned. “Bowie is a huge influence on our music.”
“I know.” It came out. I couldn’t help it. Talking music was my jam. Talking music with a musician? How often would I get the opportunity?
We turned onto Flatbush Avenue, and he peppered me with more questions.
“What was the best concert you ever saw—” he held up a hand “—without any band members you’ve shared a beer with.”
