Read Online Grave Refrain: A Love/Ghost Story by Sarah M. Glover - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarah M. Glover
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you don’t understand. I can’t go. I can’t—I don’t have anything to wear. And I have to—I have—Vandin has a paper that he’s submitting and I have to finish editing the bibliography. Drinks? Where?”
Margot’s mug stopped midway to her lips. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it’s so sudden. To invite us, and he doesn’t even know who we are, what happens if he, if they—”
“Yes?”
“I mean, it’s one thing to look up there and watch them play, but to have to talk? I don’t think I’m ready for that—I mean, what would we say? We have nothing in common.”
“We’re going out for drinks, not giving them a kidney. And seriously, we’ve suffered through worse for her before. All we have to do is endure a few hours of noise and the obligatory first drink and then we leave. That’s it, just drinks. It’s probably a good thing that we meet her little musician and his friends and make sure she hasn’t made a complete fool of herself yet.”
“There’s nothing little about him.”
“Excuse me?”
Emily floundered. “The drummer—the drummer’s tall,” she blurted out in the vain hope that Margot’s guarded intrigue in the Irish drummer, with his battering arms and sly banter, would effectively detour the direction of the conversation and put an end to her increasingly critical stare.
“Statistically, I’d say he falls onto the far end of the bell curve, yes,” Margot offered into her coffee mug. “At least when it comes to talent, that is. But he looks unwashed.”
“True. But didn’t Newton or somebody say something about opposites attracting?”
“Attractive? Well…I suppose he might be in a James Joyce, John Lennon, rebel-as-artist sort of way, if you like that sort of thing. But I need a mind functioning within all that…noise. And somehow, that man couldn’t have both—it’s not statistically possible.”
“What? Look at you. Why can’t that happen with a Y-chromosome?”
“Because it can’t, and even if it could, it ultimately comes to down to someone sacrificing to make it work. And women are engineered to sacrifice, it’s in our DNA. Whereas the best of men, no matter how talented or intelligent or attractive, will suck you dry and then complain to you about the aftertaste. Trust me. Men aren’t engineered to sacrifice or to stay around, especially men in bands, so it’s better to leave first before you end up making a huge mistake.”
“But we’re just talking about drinks here.”
“My point, exactly. So I suggest you be ready to go by seven.”
Emily sometimes hated having a genius for a roommate.
As Emily entered the Skellar, she pinched herself to verify she was indeed awake, and as an extra precaution, scanned the club to make sure the audience looked firmly of this century. At her side, Margot took no notice, or if she did she didn’t say a word. She hadn’t said a word about Emily’s attire of a blue-black velvet jacket and treacherously high pumps donated with relish by Myra for the occasion who claimed they made Emily look exactly like a feminist fairy tale princess. Margot was used to her friend’s bohemian style of dress, herself opting for a leather jacket and appropriately frayed jeans as did the rest of the crowd. Her black, tight-fitting T-shirt, however, bore a bright yellow radioactive symbol on it in apparent warning.
The same as the previous evening, the dark room was packed. Within seconds of reaching the tables they were whisked along by Zoey, who nabbed them each by the arm and escorted them to one that bore a reserved VIP sign. She must have come home at some point during the day, thought Emily, because she was done up in a macraméd peasant dress and white go-go boots. No sooner had they taken their seats than she launched into the description of their new apartment.
“But a house?” Emily said after finding out the details. “We barely make enough between us to afford our current
Margot’s mug stopped midway to her lips. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Nothing. It’s just that it’s so sudden. To invite us, and he doesn’t even know who we are, what happens if he, if they—”
“Yes?”
“I mean, it’s one thing to look up there and watch them play, but to have to talk? I don’t think I’m ready for that—I mean, what would we say? We have nothing in common.”
“We’re going out for drinks, not giving them a kidney. And seriously, we’ve suffered through worse for her before. All we have to do is endure a few hours of noise and the obligatory first drink and then we leave. That’s it, just drinks. It’s probably a good thing that we meet her little musician and his friends and make sure she hasn’t made a complete fool of herself yet.”
“There’s nothing little about him.”
“Excuse me?”
Emily floundered. “The drummer—the drummer’s tall,” she blurted out in the vain hope that Margot’s guarded intrigue in the Irish drummer, with his battering arms and sly banter, would effectively detour the direction of the conversation and put an end to her increasingly critical stare.
“Statistically, I’d say he falls onto the far end of the bell curve, yes,” Margot offered into her coffee mug. “At least when it comes to talent, that is. But he looks unwashed.”
“True. But didn’t Newton or somebody say something about opposites attracting?”
“Attractive? Well…I suppose he might be in a James Joyce, John Lennon, rebel-as-artist sort of way, if you like that sort of thing. But I need a mind functioning within all that…noise. And somehow, that man couldn’t have both—it’s not statistically possible.”
“What? Look at you. Why can’t that happen with a Y-chromosome?”
“Because it can’t, and even if it could, it ultimately comes to down to someone sacrificing to make it work. And women are engineered to sacrifice, it’s in our DNA. Whereas the best of men, no matter how talented or intelligent or attractive, will suck you dry and then complain to you about the aftertaste. Trust me. Men aren’t engineered to sacrifice or to stay around, especially men in bands, so it’s better to leave first before you end up making a huge mistake.”
“But we’re just talking about drinks here.”
“My point, exactly. So I suggest you be ready to go by seven.”
Emily sometimes hated having a genius for a roommate.
As Emily entered the Skellar, she pinched herself to verify she was indeed awake, and as an extra precaution, scanned the club to make sure the audience looked firmly of this century. At her side, Margot took no notice, or if she did she didn’t say a word. She hadn’t said a word about Emily’s attire of a blue-black velvet jacket and treacherously high pumps donated with relish by Myra for the occasion who claimed they made Emily look exactly like a feminist fairy tale princess. Margot was used to her friend’s bohemian style of dress, herself opting for a leather jacket and appropriately frayed jeans as did the rest of the crowd. Her black, tight-fitting T-shirt, however, bore a bright yellow radioactive symbol on it in apparent warning.
The same as the previous evening, the dark room was packed. Within seconds of reaching the tables they were whisked along by Zoey, who nabbed them each by the arm and escorted them to one that bore a reserved VIP sign. She must have come home at some point during the day, thought Emily, because she was done up in a macraméd peasant dress and white go-go boots. No sooner had they taken their seats than she launched into the description of their new apartment.
“But a house?” Emily said after finding out the details. “We barely make enough between us to afford our current
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