Opening Act (43 page)

And then Shay was right there at the table. “Mind?” he said, gesturing at the chair Zee had vacated.

“Oh, I'm going to
insist
on it,” Loni replied. When he sat down, she turned to him and said, “That first tune…what the
hell
?”

He grinned. “You remembered?”

“Clearly not as well as
you
did.”

He shook his head and reached for his back pocket. “I didn't
have
to remember.” He pulled out his wallet, opened it, and extracted a tattered paper napkin, which he gently opened on the table between them.

It was the very napkin on which they'd scribbled those lyrics, over tea and espresso that afternoon, nearly ten months before.

“You
kept
it?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, folding it back up and replacing it. “Didn't think I'd let a document like that just get thrown out, did you? Future generations would never forgive me.”

She rolled her eyes. “You haven't changed,” she said—but affectionately, radiantly. “What makes you think future generations will care?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “One way to make sure they do.”

She smiled. She didn't know what was coming, but she could tell by his impish expression that it would make her laugh. “What's that?”

“By producing them ourselves.”

She was only half right; it made her laugh
and
cry.

Hours later—after so much talk, and so much hand-holding and soul-baring, and a few moments in the parking lot where she thought she might go mad from happiness and just crawl inside his skin and live there forever—she was back at Zee's place, in her old room, in her old bed. This was at her insistence. She told Shay,
slowly
this time. Nice and easy. This voyage is a long one, and she wasn't missing any of the stops along the way.

She lay on her back and stared at the crack in the ceiling. Still there, still taunting her.

But no…not taunting her.
Teaching
her. Trying to wake her
up
.

Yes, it was a crack. It was still a crack. It would always be a crack.

But it was also still a ceiling.
One
ceiling. A crack couldn't change that. A crack couldn't even come close. All the crack did was lend it character. Depth. Interest.

She felt a jolt of inspiration, like her brain had been stung by a joy buzzer. She reached over to her nightstand, where she'd placed a copy of
Venus in Retrograde
, and grabbed the book, turning to the page on which “Fracture” was printed. She read it anew:

       
A hairsbreadth divide that does not divine—meaning

       
gutters when division uncouples a nullity—

       
Constant ever, yet aspect alters:

       
Your face in starlight—enchantment—

       
Your face in daylight—error

No, no. This was all wrong. She could see it now. She searched the nightstand drawer and found a pen, then began marking up the page, making changes. When she was finished, she sat back and read the result.

       
A hairsbreadth divide that does not define—meaning

       
lingers when division uncouples a duality

       
Constant ever, yet aspect alters:

       
Your face in starlight—hope

       
Your face in daylight—home

She smiled in satisfaction.
Time for a second edition
, she thought.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dish Tillman is a writer and musician living in Chicago who, under another name, has published several novels and fronts a progressive alt-rock band.