Do I get what I want now?
Keep talking like that, and it’s pretty much a guarantee that I’ll cave.
Promise?
What do you need, smooth talker?
I miss you.
Show me what’s in front of you right now so I can pretend I’m there.
You want to be here sunburnt in the dirt with me?
Strange kink, but okay.
I hesitate as I glance around. Lunch break is dragging by, and the crew is scattered in theshade or scrolling on their phones. No one’s looking my way, so I flip the camera to selfie mode and frame the shot. The wheelbarrow looms behind me like a silent witness, halfway fallen over with mulch spilling over its side.
Dirt is smeared across my cheek in uneven streaks. Sweat has carved clean rivers through the grime on my neck and temples, and a few damp strands of hair cling to my forehead. I grimace at my reflection, cataloguing my sunburned nose and exhausted eyes, but then I force a small, real smile anyway. It’s tired, but honest.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Mulch rebellion. Day in the life.
Fuck, you look hot.
Thanks, genius. It’s way too warm for March.
I’m unsure if you’re just dense or fishing for compliments.
But you look good out there.
The chaos is very on-brand for you. That wheelbarrow looks like it’s seen things.
Oh, it has. Mostly my regret… and occasional temper tantrum.
Your move. Top that.
Challenge accepted.
He sends a photo of the practice-room piano, with a row of empty energy drink cans lined up along the top. Instead of being neat like it usually is, his sheet music is scattered like he’s thrown it a few times then had to gather it back up because he needed it.
Another picture comes through before I can respond. This one is an up-close shot of a drawing from his notebook. A stick figure with messy hair lies on the ground with tiny Xs over its eyes, and beside it is a crude drawing of a piano with devil horns and a smug smile. I chuckle as I zoom in to read the messyI will survivethat’s scrawled underneath.
Cute note.
That piano looks like it’s in cahoots with the wheelbarrow.
I don’t know how I didn’t consider this until now. They’re conspiring to keep us apart.
Like a band of villainous inanimate objects.
The horror.
Exactly. I’m pretty sure the piano started it.
It keeps making the same mistakes.
Are we… sure it’s the piano doing that?
