Page 234 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

The goal today is to repel,

to be one of the guys.

I pull a hoodie over a crewneck, slip on Ben’s sweatpants, and bury my hair in a beanie. After a little dark eyeshadow along my jawline for a five-o’clock shadow, I shove a sock into my pants for my pretend dick.

When people hear method songwriter,

I’m sure they think of

candles, playlists, tapping into a muse.

But what it really means is to become the feeling, and this method bleeds into every aspect of my life.

If the track needs pain, I’m grieving.

If it needs chaos, I’m DJ apocalypse.

If I need to turn off three heterosexual males, I become one. It’s only appropriate for the guests that’ll be arriving soon.

When I walk out of my bedroom, New York looks dead on the other side of the terrace. The sky’s the color of a mop bucket, sprinkling white suds over the towers. It’s freezing, frost ornamenting the windows.

Andrew’s making coffee shirtless, steam wrapping around him and fogging up his glasses.

A half-dressed fantasy, with pillow-swept hair, sweatpants slung low, and dimples kissing the base of his spine. A sight that always knocks the air out of me.

“Mornin’, Baby,” Ben says, bright and sunshiny. He’s pacing shirtless, flexing his muscles into the window’s reflection.

Honor echoes from the couch, following the morning-greeting rule, with cereal in his lap as he watches the news.

He chews around a bite, head lifting, and his eyes snap wide when he sees my costume of the day.

Andrew glances over at me, scanning me from head to toe as he sips from his coffee. Then he lifts his chin like—yo.

I clutch my pen and notebook tighter—pages packed with lyrics and notes and slashes ‘cause sometimes a beat’s all I’ve got—and take my morning chair by the window,

slouching back,

crossing a foot over my knee,

as if I got a dick I need to make room for.

Andrew drops into the chair next to me.

Ben doesn’t pour me coffee ‘cause he assumes Andrew will. Andrew doesn’t pour me coffee ‘cause he’s playing some game.

Joke’s on all of them

‘cause I’m running on withdrawal

and phantom blue-balls.

Fuck coffee.

Fuck mornings.

Fuck orgasms.

Fuck Andrew’s entire smirking face watching me over that mug, as if he’s getting off on my cranky ass.