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“What do you mean?” Peter eyes me, bringing his elbows to his knees. His lanky body looks awkward as he sinks into the worn cushions of the couch.
“You’re writing a song about a woman,” I cock my head to the side waiting for his confirmation. This much I gathered, but I need more information that I sense he doesn’t want to give.
“Yes,” he answers cautiously.
“So, who is she?” I look at him expectantly.
“No one. It’s just a song.” His face hardens defensively, and I know I’ve struck a nerve. Good.
“That’s your problem.” My explanation doesn’t register on his face.
“You don’t like it? Is that what you’re saying?” He stands up, brushing his hands on his black, ripped jeans. A chain dangles on his hip from the wallet stuffed in his back pocket.
“You’re missing the point,” I reply, crossing my legs casually.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He snatches the notebook from me, but I don’t blanch. Peter is the type of guy looking for a reaction, and he’s not getting one from me. The more I play it cool, the more agitated he gets. “You either like it or you don’t.”
“If you have no personal connection to the song, then why bother?” I stand up, my short stature no match for his.
“That’s some emo shit,” he snarls in frustration.
“Really? Tell that to Metallica.”
Peter smirks and then flops back onto the couch, rubbing his chin. “So what?” He leans forward looking at me quizzically. “I gotta find my inner child who’s afraid of the boogeyman?” He shrugs, holding out his hand as if I’m supposed to put the answer into his palm.
I laugh and then move to the piano bench, the heels of my boots echoing on the cheap tile. “Don’t be stupid,” I say flippantly.
Peter looks at the notebook in his other hand and then lets it fall to the table with a loud thud. “I don’t know how to do this,” He throws his hand up in the air, “Be all emotional and shit.”
“That’s what I’m here for.” I play a little tune on the piano, something that comes to mind when I think of Peter’s lyrics.
I turn back around.
“You’re enjoying watching me fucking squirm, aren’t you?” he glares at me.
“It’s what I live for,” I deadpan. “Look, I’ve got better things to do. You write, you write, you don’t, you don’t,” I tell him, trying not to care, but I’ve seen a flicker of vulnerability that makes me want to help him. Whether I like him as a person or not is beside the point. There’s potential in him I would hate to go unrealized. “But I’d rather you have a great song than a shitty, superficial one.”
Peter’s expression softens as he sighs heavily. He grabs the pen and clicks it open.
After about an hour of complaining, Peter picks up his guitar and plays the melody he’s been struggling with. The way he holds the body against his torso and the grip of his hand on the neck is as if he is cradling a lover.
“You play the guitar the way you should be writing the song.” I take a sip from my water bottle, realizing it’s empty and then toss it in the trash. The table between us is littered with styrofoam cups and crumpled up pieces of paper.
“Like that’s helpful,” he snarls.
“I’ve seen a lot of guitar players.” I rest my elbow on the top of the piano, my hand holding up my head lazily as I stare at him. “Some play like they fuck. Others as if they’re afraid to abuse it. But you play as if it’s what gives you life.” Peter looks as though he doesn’t know what to make of me, and that’s fine by me. “If you write a song the same way you play…” I let that thought hang in the air, “Well, then you can’t go wrong.”
He sets the guitar beside him on the couch and palms his face. He’s tired, and I get it. Writing songs is emotionally exhausting.
“So, I’m gonna ask again. Who is this song about?” I stand in front of him and place my palms on the table, leaning towards him to get his attention.
For a minute it looks as though he’s going to be honest with me, but then his armor clinks back together. “Nobody,” he says loudly, and I stand up straight, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Then who should it be about?” I push him, because he needs it.
Peter stands abruptly. “Fuck this!” He grabs his jacket and storms out the door.
“Fuck,” I mutter. Bret’s going to kill me. I slump down into the chair. I don’t think he was crying, but I can’t be sure.
