J waits to see if Skye is going to say that’s a joke, too. They don’t.
“How long have the two of you been together?”
Skye smiles tensely. “Oh, I probably shouldn’t answer that until Detroit gets here.”
J has plenty of follow-up questions to that statement—but also takes the statement to mean that follow-up questions should beavoided. This isn’t that unusual for the interview process—he’s certainly been with couples who always wanted to answer together, partly out of fear that one of them would give a “wrong” answer that the other one would take the wrong way. Still, he doesn’t want the time to be wasted, so he decides to press on...but gently. He takes out his notebook and brings up the recording app on his phone.
“Do you mind if I...?”
This time, Skye’s smile seems warmer. “Who doesn’t love posterity? Go right ahead.”
“Do the two of you make your living as performers?”
Skye lets out a big laugh and paces a little. “Um...no. I mean, we have a following—I promise there will be people there on Friday night. But having a following doesn’t necessarily pay the bills.”
“Please—sit down,” J says, as if he’s the host.
“You’re sweet,” Skye says, taking a chair close to the couch. “And cute.”
“For an old man,” J replies.
“Yeah, right. I’ve seen old men, and you arenotone of them.”
Again, the sincerity of this comment gets to J.
“Now you’re the one being sweet,” he points out.
“It’s nice to have the chance,” Skye replies. Then, before J can think of a new question, Skye asks, “Have you always performed solo?”
“I have a band. You know Julia—”
“No, I mean, it’s always been you in the spotlight, right? You’ve never had to share it?”
“I guess. The whole singer-songwriter thing.”
“I’ve never done that. I bet it’s nice.”
J isn’t quite sure what constitutes “nice” here. So he asks, “Have you always been part of a group?”
“Duos, mostly. Ironically enough.”
“Why is that ironic?”
“I mean, right now polyamory is a big part of what Detroit wants in our...I don’t know what to call it. Our relationship? Our act? Our lives? At a certain point, they’re all the same thing, you know?”
You’re so lonely,J thinks. That’s part of Skye’s sincerity—its desire to connect to someone else’s sincerity, to be seen for what it is.
It’s at this moment that a key fumbles in the door. Skye reflexively stands and smooths the front of their shirt, as if crumbs had fallen there simply from talking.
Detroit enters the room and makes sure the room is paying good attention. He’s wearing a black turtleneck and designer jeans, topped with a phalanx of scarves. He bears a strange resemblance to Meryl Streep playing Ian McKellen. Possibly Ian McKellen playing Meryl Streep. Instead of apologizing for being late, he says, “Oh, good—you’re already here.”
J stands too, now. “It’s great to meet you,” he offers.
“Yes, it is, isn’t it? Detroit says with a devilish smile. “In all my years, I’ve never been asked to be in a fake wedding before. Fake dates, for sure. Fake orgasms, more than I can count. But a fake wedding? I’m just so glad we now have the constitutional right to pretend to get married. Until it gets taken away by Clarence Thomas’s wife.”
For a moment, J forgets Skye is also in the room...and then, when he remembers, he feels immediately guilty. For their part, Skye falls as silent as the furniture.
“Now, how does this work?” Detroit asks, unraveling a scarf and draping it over the sewing machine while keeping at least a half dozen other scarves on. “I can’t say you’ll be the first person to ever write a song about me, but you’ll definitely be the first person who’s ever asked first.”
