Finding the Pure Note

The Heart's Yearning

"... heartbreak is my... No." I puff out my cheeks, casting the pen down so it clatters and bounces off the notepad, crashing to the stone below, and dig my face into my palms. "This is shit."

I wait for Fletcher's retort, some witty comeback that's meant to defuse the situation and assure me, no, Clay, your music isn't shit. Believe in yourself. It doesn't come.

I look up from my messy scribbles and wince. He's gnawing on the edge of his palm.

"You're thinking about something."

He keeps gnawing, but after a few seconds, he slowly veers his head right to face me. "What?"

"I said, you're thinking about something."

He regards me curiously. "What makes—" Fletcher makes a whooping noise and whips his arm out twice. "you say that?"

"'Cause you're biting your palm."

He looks down at his palm, hovering just below the tip of his lips, the skin edged with bite marks, glistening with saliva, and he drops his hand like an afterthought.

Rolling my eyes, I push myself up from the table. The city is pretty tame on a Sunday afternoon, and that suits us just fine. Cafés might be cliché, but they're cosy and serve great coffee to keep budding artists ticking. Neither of us wanted to drive in, so we took two buses in, 'cause have you seen the kinds of people on public transport? Sometimes you find real gems, and other times you hear really juicy gossip that's good to note down for later.

I shudder, convincing myself that Fletcher's wisecrack just has a slow buildup, that he'll humour me with no effort, no... Damn. I stir the spoon in my cup absentmindedly. This isn't about the drinks, is it? Fletcher shouted. I sprung that on him last second, my wallet forgotten at home. He didn't complain.

I spy Fletcher's eyes on me, indecision halting his tongue, and his lips quiver, straining.

"Listen, Fletch. It's obvious you're dealing with some shit. Head in the clouds. I mean, you haven't even tic'd in a minute. A minute!"

"I—" Tic, two twitches. "There you go."

Sighing, I scrape my chair so it's brushing up against his, leaning close to his body. I catch a group of cocktail-smitten girls a few tables away glancing over at us and giggling. Three guesses what's tickled their funny bone. I ignore them, as Fletcher should. Unless he isn't, and that's what's gotten him down. I ask if that's what's eating at him.

He looks startled, and then glancing over his shoulder and back at me, he shakes his head. "No—no. It's not them. I... It doesn't matter."

Narrowing my eyes, I throw my arm around his shoulder. "Come on, Fletch. I don't want you lying to me. That's my job."

It's his turn to frown, but I just shrug. We'll deal with my shortcomings at a, uh, later date. Fletcher upset is a serious crime. He smiles warmly at me and then loosens his shoulders.

"Nah, forget it. I really don't want to—fuck—to bother you."

He bites at his palm's edge again as his face flushes. I feel my cheeks burning at that unintentional slip. "Really?" I mutter, turning this into a joke. "You don't want to fuck? Shame. I have the lube in my pocket. Thought tonight I'd get lucky. Damn..."

His cheeks turn an even brighter pink and I laugh. "You're not crushing on some girl, are you?" I muse. "Was it one of those chicks on the other table?" As he struggles to form a proper sentence, I wink and nudge him. "Relax. I'm only teasing. Still..." I drop the grin. "You can tell me. Seriously, man."