* * *
I text Teague at eight.
bad day. need music. what’s the prescription?
She responds in a minute.
how bad?
pretty bad
the replacements. “unsatisfied.” play it in the dark and don’t think about anything.
I lie on my bed. Earbuds in. Lights off. Stars on the ceiling. I pull up the Replacements and find “Unsatisfied” and press play.
It’s raw. Stripped. A voice that sounds like it’s been awake for three days asking a question it knows doesn’t have an answer.Look me in the eye, then tell me that I’m satisfied.The guitar is messy and the drums are simple and the whole thing sounds like it’s about to fall apart but it holds together through sheer stubbornness, and I lie in the dark and listen to it three times in a row.
I text her.
that song understands me.
it understands everybody. that’s why it works.
can I come to the bar?
I’m here. It's literally a business. You don't need my permission.
I get out of bed. Change out of my sweats. Tell Mom I’m going out. She gives me the look but she doesn’t stop me because I’m twenty-two and legally allowed to leave my own house, even if the look suggests she has opinions about the legality of her child being out past nine on a weeknight.
Anthem is warm and dim and half-full, the weeknight crowd, quieter than Saturday. Teague is behind the bar in a faded band shirt and her rings and her hair freshly touched up, the pink brighter than last week, almost magenta in the neon light.
She sees me come in and starts making a Moscow mule before I sit down.
“That bad?” she says, setting it in front of me.
“I sat in an empty fire station today and listened to a crew I can’t join run a call I can’t answer.”
“That’s bad.”
“I have five days.”
“Until what?”
“Until I report to the wrong station and this is over.”
Teague leans on the bar. She’s close. Closer than usual. I can see the detail work on the koi tattoo on her forearm, scales in red and orange, fresh, still healing under a thin layer of lotion.
“New ink?” I ask.
“Vanessa finished a section.” She turns her arm so I can see it better. The koi is mid-swim, tail curving, mouth open. It’s beautiful and fierce and alive on her skin.
“It’s gorgeous.”
“Vanessa doesn’t do anything that isn’t gorgeous.” Teague turns her arm back. “So what’s the plan? Five days.”
“There is no plan. I’ve tried everything. Cookies. Flowers. I washed her rig. I sat in her bay. She keeps saying no.”
“So what are you going to do?”
