Instead of typing it out, J hits the microphone button and sends it as a voice message.
You know how kids wait to cry
Until they have permission
A safe haven
Where it’s alright
V must listen to it a couple of times, because it’s a full minute before she writes anything back.
Yes, those lines. I wasn’t expecting them, especially after the first song. They really hit me.
J responds,I can definitely include the song in our private performance. I won’t even make you wait until the encore. I’m at the subway station now...where should I go?
Another pause. J looks at the electronic board beyond the turnstiles and sees the next train is arriving in three minutes.
V texts,I think you should go back to where you’re staying. Can we rain check the private concert?
But it’s not raining.
I’m the rain in this scenario.
Got it.
Let’s talk tomorrow.
Please.
Goodnight.
Goodnight.
PS—I really did like the sky song.
Thank you.
When J gets back to the apartment, he doesn’t want to feel lonely, so he checks his Instagram. It is not particularly surprising to learn that Skye and Detroit’s friends document every single moment they experience and then tag it within an inch of its life. There are hundreds of photos of J at the fake wedding, especially during the group kiss.
J sighs and feels old.
He dodges all the comments and sees there are a few direct messages in his inbox. Some are from fans, cheering his “experimentation.” Two are from people he knows—one a guitarist who he often gets a drink with when he’s in New York, and one a woman named Tara, with whom he has a less straightforward relationship.
Roughly a dozen years ago, J met Tara at a party (possibly Julia’s?) and then made plans to go on a date with her the following night. The next afternoon, J was walking through the city and realizedthey hadn’t pinned down the particulars of where and when they’d meet. The good news was that he’d written her number down on a piece of paper, and he still had the piece of paper in his jacket pocket. The bad news was that his phone was dead. The search for a way to call her inspired a song called “Increasingly Obsolete,” which has since proven to be a popular obscurity for listeners willing to dig deep enough to find it:
I’m calling from the last payphone in New York
After looking for quarters on the ground
I don’t have much time, I’ll cut it short
Since you’re probably hearing more static than sound
At the end of the song, whatever connection they’ve had is thrown into the junkyard of obsolescence, like so manyE.T. Atari games and Garfield phones.
I’ve emptied my pockets for nickels and dimes.
All my hope has been put in the slot.
