Page 81 of Paint the Town, Dove
“I worked –” the lump in my throat expanded – “I worked on that song for half my life.”
“My guess is you were goin’ to surprise her with it?”
“I – yeah,” I nodded, sniffing, “it was important to me.”
He pressed his lips together. “She’s not the sentimental type.”
“You don’t think I know that?” I stood up, anger rising, “I FUCKING KNOW HER!”
He didn’t move, not a muscle, it bothered me. It bothered me so much.Give me a reaction, fight me on it.
“If you know her, Ryden,” he spoke calmly, “where is she now?”
“Why do you care? Do you fucking like her or –”
His fists were at my neck, balling up my shirt, tearing through the seams. “Don’t finish that sentence, boy. Quit burnin’ your fuckin’ bridges with people who gave a shit enough to mend them.”
He let me go.
Shame, shame, shame.
I coughed out an apology.
“There’s press, important people. This is the moment they want to see, tonight. Get your shit together, because tomorrow you’re at Radio City. Figure this mess out, for your own sake.”
He grabbed the glass of bourbon and tossedit in the sink, shattering the crystal.
My voice was small when I called after him. “That was expensive.”
Hand on the doorknob, he looked to me with disappointment. “Teach you to spend your cash on wiser things.”
He left.
And I plucked at the glass shards, one at a time, slipping into memory.
***
I got ready alone.
Ten minutes until I’d find Morty at the door, all black suits and earpieces, escorting me to the venue –myvenue – to celebrate the end of my tour.
It’s a happy moment!Is it?
You did it!Did I?
Another sold out tour!Can’t argue that.
People love you!People don’t know who I am.
Way to go, Mr. Spectre!
Ryden.Please…
Just –
Ryden.
I glanced at my watch, nine minutes of isolation remaining. I hummed to myself,Paint the Town, as if that could manifesther,as if she could forgive me.
