trippy connections right where he’d left them, like a shelf of knick-knacks in a childhood bedroom. Mike handed him a bottle of microbrewery beer—nice hoppy flavour, no preservatives, brewed with local spring water.
“I’d endorse this beer,” Joseph said.
Jane was in the chair next to him, her calf against his, their ankles warm where they touched, as though their feet rested in the same fire-warmed pool. They’d danced in the living room after dinner, Joseph exploring the curves he’dknown as a covetous young man, and even now he could feel where their bodies had been pressed together, as if the blood were still pooled there under his skin, in his hands, his chest. Everyone had danced except Alex, who watched from the doorway, too pissed off about his failed dinner speech to join them. Then the jangly opening chords of “Sweet Child o’ Mine” sounded, still able to call a packed room to such desperate life you thought the furniture would start dancing, and Jane pulled away from Joseph to dance with Liz and Amber, because the girls had always danced to that song with one another. Now Julian, two lawn chairs away, was trying to tell Jane what those long-gone days of high school meant to him.
“I always felt very comfortable around you. Even at that age, we understood things people
never
get, without even
saying
anything. You really impressed me, without any reservations.”
“Get out the incense and purple light bulbs,” she said, watching Alex return to the fire with a load of wood. “I’m amazed we got in two words to each other at those parties.” She spoke loudly enough for Alex to catch this minor historical revision.
“I will always follow you and Liz, at any point in my life. I know I can come to you when I want to touch my root.”
“Which root is that?”
“I’m
sincere
.”
“Presses stopped,” Mike chirped.
Jane patted Julian’s leg. “You were always a sweet-talker.”
Amber was resting her chin on Julian’s shoulder, theirblack shirts merging so that two heads seemed to spring from one broad torso, the first head a lion’s—wide in the face, proud, and scarred—the other an old hunting bird’s—dark-eyed, sharp, riding updrafts into strange heights.
“Jane, I say this with no reservations.” The lion paused, calling for a full hearing of his heart’s contents. “As a musician, I never forgot, through
everything
, hearing you and Andrea Wilson harmonizing to Human League at those park parties.”
“Human League!” Jane couldn’t believe it. She leaned across Joseph’s lap to tap Liz, her breasts pressing against him. “I heard Human League at work the other day! It’s still good music!”
“It was wicked when you sang,” Julian said. “I say this sincerely, you had a major impact—
major
—on my musical development.”
“Sing!” Amber’s black eyes were already three mood swings ahead of everyone. “One song!” She gestured at the fire and the fields and the white dome over the low sun, set pieces for an outdoor concert celebrating the coming nightfall.
Jane took a quick glance at Alex across the fire. “Trust me, no one wants to hear me sing.”
“We
do
, Jane,” Amber said. “I see you holding on to something.” This fact seemed to hurt her more than Jane. “Something that won’t let you express yourself, a
blockage
.”
Yes, his name is Alex
. Joseph fought down a giggle. He was being mean, but really, Alex had to lighten up—glaring at Jane’s friends when he should be flattered they wanted to hear his wife sing.
“
Go
with it, Jane,” Amber said, the sun highlighting her high curving cheekbones and almost-slanted eyes. Joseph imagined her as lover to the brilliant guitarist, frontwoman of the art-school punk band, muse of the poet. Tonight, she radiated on Jane’s behalf.
Julian had taken out his guitar, and a single chord cut the air with a sound as sharp as lake ice cracking. Joseph’s senses sharpened at the sound, flexing
“I’d endorse this beer,” Joseph said.
Jane was in the chair next to him, her calf against his, their ankles warm where they touched, as though their feet rested in the same fire-warmed pool. They’d danced in the living room after dinner, Joseph exploring the curves he’dknown as a covetous young man, and even now he could feel where their bodies had been pressed together, as if the blood were still pooled there under his skin, in his hands, his chest. Everyone had danced except Alex, who watched from the doorway, too pissed off about his failed dinner speech to join them. Then the jangly opening chords of “Sweet Child o’ Mine” sounded, still able to call a packed room to such desperate life you thought the furniture would start dancing, and Jane pulled away from Joseph to dance with Liz and Amber, because the girls had always danced to that song with one another. Now Julian, two lawn chairs away, was trying to tell Jane what those long-gone days of high school meant to him.
“I always felt very comfortable around you. Even at that age, we understood things people
never
get, without even
saying
anything. You really impressed me, without any reservations.”
“Get out the incense and purple light bulbs,” she said, watching Alex return to the fire with a load of wood. “I’m amazed we got in two words to each other at those parties.” She spoke loudly enough for Alex to catch this minor historical revision.
“I will always follow you and Liz, at any point in my life. I know I can come to you when I want to touch my root.”
“Which root is that?”
“I’m
sincere
.”
“Presses stopped,” Mike chirped.
Jane patted Julian’s leg. “You were always a sweet-talker.”
Amber was resting her chin on Julian’s shoulder, theirblack shirts merging so that two heads seemed to spring from one broad torso, the first head a lion’s—wide in the face, proud, and scarred—the other an old hunting bird’s—dark-eyed, sharp, riding updrafts into strange heights.
“Jane, I say this with no reservations.” The lion paused, calling for a full hearing of his heart’s contents. “As a musician, I never forgot, through
everything
, hearing you and Andrea Wilson harmonizing to Human League at those park parties.”
“Human League!” Jane couldn’t believe it. She leaned across Joseph’s lap to tap Liz, her breasts pressing against him. “I heard Human League at work the other day! It’s still good music!”
“It was wicked when you sang,” Julian said. “I say this sincerely, you had a major impact—
major
—on my musical development.”
“Sing!” Amber’s black eyes were already three mood swings ahead of everyone. “One song!” She gestured at the fire and the fields and the white dome over the low sun, set pieces for an outdoor concert celebrating the coming nightfall.
Jane took a quick glance at Alex across the fire. “Trust me, no one wants to hear me sing.”
“We
do
, Jane,” Amber said. “I see you holding on to something.” This fact seemed to hurt her more than Jane. “Something that won’t let you express yourself, a
blockage
.”
Yes, his name is Alex
. Joseph fought down a giggle. He was being mean, but really, Alex had to lighten up—glaring at Jane’s friends when he should be flattered they wanted to hear his wife sing.
“
Go
with it, Jane,” Amber said, the sun highlighting her high curving cheekbones and almost-slanted eyes. Joseph imagined her as lover to the brilliant guitarist, frontwoman of the art-school punk band, muse of the poet. Tonight, she radiated on Jane’s behalf.
Julian had taken out his guitar, and a single chord cut the air with a sound as sharp as lake ice cracking. Joseph’s senses sharpened at the sound, flexing
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