made references to Thomas being in an unreachable place, that she would hold the letters and keep them safe against his return, that he could read them then, or simply accept them as a gift, a way to know that she had been thinking of him, always, in his absence. They were narrative, not dialogue, and I couldn’t tell where Thomas was, or why he couldn’t receive letters. Even in prison, you can send and receive letters.
I folded them back up, retied the ribbon, then took the letters and the book of fairy tales back into the kitchen with me. Still distracted, but this was the kind of distraction I could make a story out of, at least once I had more coffee.
Ariel was spooning honey into a mug, last night’s smeary eyeliner adding an air of debauchery to her cutoff grey sweats and well-worn Dresden Dolls T-shirt.
“You were amazing,” I said.
“Thanks.” Her voice was lower, grittier than usual. “You were a good crowd. A show’s always better when people dance.”
“I heard it’s a big deal, getting asked to perform there. Congratulations.” I poured milk into my coffee, passed her the carton.
“I tell you what, the whole audition process or whatever it was felt like something out of a spy movie. There was a letter in my studio one day, on top of the piano. I had to write my response on it, and leave it there. Gone the next day. Three days pass, and I don’t hear anything.
“Yesterday morning, Angelica, my mentor, texts to tell me I’m confirmed, and that she has to walk me over to do my sound check. Which wasn’t at the Commons, but this place in the woods, where I had to sing. Without being able to see who was watching. I’m pretty sure none of them danced. They definitely didn’t cheer.” She passed her hand through her hair, standing it in spikes.
“It was so bizarre. I thought it was a joke. If Angelica hadn’t been there, I would have left.”
“Weird. Did you send in an audition tape or something?”
“Angelica said they liked my application portfolio.”
“That’s so cool. Congratulations again. Send me a link where I can buy your stuff.” I grabbed the book and my coffee.
“Absolutely. I’ll send you the demo tracks for the new songs, too.”
I was almost out of the kitchen when she spoke again.
“Hey, Imogen. Did you notice anything”—a pause, the sound of fingers drumming on the counter—“weird last night?”
An echo of a song she hadn’t sung rang in my thoughts. “Weird how?”
“Like, toward the end of the set, I kept thinking that maybe there were people there in costumes or something?”
“So you saw them too?” I was half-relieved.
“I freaked out. Thought maybe I’d inhaled some smoke that I shouldn’t have. But costumes makes sense.” She rolled tension from her shoulders.
“They do, don’t they. Or secondhand smoke. I had a beast of a headache.” Both possibilities were logical.
“Most likely explanation.”
I nodded, and we left it at that, neither of us making the point that the most likely explanation wasn’t always the true one. It was just the thing that was most comfortable to believe.
7
Everything that could have gone wrong that day already had, so I wasn’t surprised when the baking did, too. The second batch of still-watery egg whites slithered down the sink, and I clanged the empty bowl on top of the counter. “Fuck.”
“Imogen?” Ariel asked. “What are you doing?”
“Failing at this, too, apparently.” I stared blankly at the counter, covered in the detritus of unsuccessful cooking.
“Too?” She slid into a chair and tucked her feet beneath her.
“I’m having one of those days where I can’t write for shit. I know I’m getting stuff wrong as soon as I put it on the page, and I can’t see my way to fixing it. Which would be fine if it were just today, but yesterday and the day before were also one of those days. Plus I spilled a bottle of ink all over my favorite shirt and I cut myself shaving.”
“And
I folded them back up, retied the ribbon, then took the letters and the book of fairy tales back into the kitchen with me. Still distracted, but this was the kind of distraction I could make a story out of, at least once I had more coffee.
Ariel was spooning honey into a mug, last night’s smeary eyeliner adding an air of debauchery to her cutoff grey sweats and well-worn Dresden Dolls T-shirt.
“You were amazing,” I said.
“Thanks.” Her voice was lower, grittier than usual. “You were a good crowd. A show’s always better when people dance.”
“I heard it’s a big deal, getting asked to perform there. Congratulations.” I poured milk into my coffee, passed her the carton.
“I tell you what, the whole audition process or whatever it was felt like something out of a spy movie. There was a letter in my studio one day, on top of the piano. I had to write my response on it, and leave it there. Gone the next day. Three days pass, and I don’t hear anything.
“Yesterday morning, Angelica, my mentor, texts to tell me I’m confirmed, and that she has to walk me over to do my sound check. Which wasn’t at the Commons, but this place in the woods, where I had to sing. Without being able to see who was watching. I’m pretty sure none of them danced. They definitely didn’t cheer.” She passed her hand through her hair, standing it in spikes.
“It was so bizarre. I thought it was a joke. If Angelica hadn’t been there, I would have left.”
“Weird. Did you send in an audition tape or something?”
“Angelica said they liked my application portfolio.”
“That’s so cool. Congratulations again. Send me a link where I can buy your stuff.” I grabbed the book and my coffee.
“Absolutely. I’ll send you the demo tracks for the new songs, too.”
I was almost out of the kitchen when she spoke again.
“Hey, Imogen. Did you notice anything”—a pause, the sound of fingers drumming on the counter—“weird last night?”
An echo of a song she hadn’t sung rang in my thoughts. “Weird how?”
“Like, toward the end of the set, I kept thinking that maybe there were people there in costumes or something?”
“So you saw them too?” I was half-relieved.
“I freaked out. Thought maybe I’d inhaled some smoke that I shouldn’t have. But costumes makes sense.” She rolled tension from her shoulders.
“They do, don’t they. Or secondhand smoke. I had a beast of a headache.” Both possibilities were logical.
“Most likely explanation.”
I nodded, and we left it at that, neither of us making the point that the most likely explanation wasn’t always the true one. It was just the thing that was most comfortable to believe.
7
Everything that could have gone wrong that day already had, so I wasn’t surprised when the baking did, too. The second batch of still-watery egg whites slithered down the sink, and I clanged the empty bowl on top of the counter. “Fuck.”
“Imogen?” Ariel asked. “What are you doing?”
“Failing at this, too, apparently.” I stared blankly at the counter, covered in the detritus of unsuccessful cooking.
“Too?” She slid into a chair and tucked her feet beneath her.
“I’m having one of those days where I can’t write for shit. I know I’m getting stuff wrong as soon as I put it on the page, and I can’t see my way to fixing it. Which would be fine if it were just today, but yesterday and the day before were also one of those days. Plus I spilled a bottle of ink all over my favorite shirt and I cut myself shaving.”
“And
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