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f r i c t i o n

f r i c t i o n

/ˈfrikSH(ə)n/

noun

the resistance that one surface or object encounters when moving over another.

[X]

"Melanie! My sour-faced darling! How the hell are ya?" Nova, dressed in all black like a thousand midnights, envelops me in a tight hug. She attacks me with kisses and pecks, showers terms of endearments on my head like spring rain. She's still sweaty from the performance. Adrenaline radiates from her core in furnace-hot waves. That's how seriously Nova takes the cello. It's a sport. She competes with herself. She always wins.

Nova's world tour kicks off in her hometown of Richmond, RI, so of course, Cody, Jillian, and I drive out to celebrate her crowning achievement, watching from the best seats in the house.

I'll admit, I don't remember much of the score. I can't tell you a single piece she played. Something about the dark lights, the swelling orchestra, and the anonymity of the shoulders to the left and right of me created the perfect cocktail to dissociate and vacate the physical plane.

Only once the lights snap on and the audience thunders into applause do I return to my body and the pain it contains. An unpaid two-hour vacation.

"Oh, how good it is to see you, friend! With the race tomorrow, I was almost worried you wouldn't make it."

I squeeze Nova's petite frame tight. She could fit inside a teacup. The palm of my hand.

"Wouldn't miss it for anything."

"How'd we sound? Did we sound good?"

"Shouldn't you be backstage popping champagne with your pals?"

"My pals are all right here," Nova grins.

Jillian, who donned a Hillary Clinton-esque pantsuit for the occasion, holds a fake microphone to Nova.

"Casanova Chiara, you've absolutely astounded fans with your rendition of Shostakovich's most iconic movement tonight. You're on the cusp of stardom and critics hail you as the Yo-Yo Ma of Generation Z. Soon you'll be a household name, an international starlet. How does it feel?"

"It feels like I'm about to vomit, thanks for asking."

"Any words of advice for the little people left behind? A philosophy everyone of all ages should hear?"

Nova nods, sagely. "Get money, fuck bitches."

Jillian and Nova banter for a few minutes and I wait on the wings pretending to scroll through my phone. I know my place. My friendship with Jillian was founded on our mutual occupations as wives and mothers, and since I'm not actively pursuing either suddenly we have nothing in common beyond the friends we've made. Cody and Nova hold us together, and now that one half of our unit is leaving to play with the big dogs I'm not sure how much longer Jillian and I will associate. Jillian is the oldest of us, about ten years my senior, so she can be awfully totalitarian when she wants to be.

Cody, grasping an armful of fragrant roses, shudders when Nova comes near.

"Here," he thrusts the bouquet at her chest. "Our diva deserves the best. I had them rush-ordered so they'd be at prime freshness for you."

Nova blinks at him. And then at the flowers dampening her dress.

"Oh. Cody. Wow. You shouldn't have." She holds the roses how one might hold a crying child. "I'll be sure to add these to the others in my dressing room."