Thank You for Listening(21)

Nick murmured, “I want to say something. Something profound. Poetic. Spirit of my ancestors and such. But for the first time tonight, I have no words.”

“You’ve run out of foreplay?”

“Cheeky.” More silence. “It looks like a pointillist painting, doesn’t it? That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Well. Que Seurat, Seurat.”

He threw back his head. Then his laugh melted like the snow hitting the window, sliding down the glass, and she watched, in the refracted reflection, his eyes slide down her body in kind. “I’m fairly confident this is as close as I’ll ever come to being in one of your novels,” he murmured. “This must be some sort of trope, yeah?” He waved his hand about, taking in the room, the lights, the falling snow. Her.

She continued looking out. She felt as though everything she was wearing–every last thing–had slipped off her. She had never felt this way. She had always wished she would. “Guess what it’s called.”

“Something epic, I’m sure. Divine Providence? Celestial Intervention?”

She chuckled. She finally turned to face him. “It’s called Snowed In.”





Part 2


Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it–don’t cheat with it.

–Ernest Hemingway

It’s always the men, isn’t it, talking about writing from a place of pain. Maybe try writing from joy. We get it, the world is hard. Which is precisely why I write: to escape it. Calm down with this tortured artist shit already, my God.

–June French in Cosmopolitan





Chapter Seven


“The Offer”

SEWANEE CARRIED THE LAST TWO BOXES OF KEURIG PODS INTO Mark’s garage. His beloved Karmann Ghia, Sal, took up one side and the other had two shelving units with a narrow pathway between them. Every inch accounted for, like an aisle in a New York grocery store. The shelves were stocked with paper goods, bottles of caffeine-delivery-vehicles, bulk bins of assorted snacks, and spare recording components: extra mics, cables, preamps, mixers.

As Sewanee slid the boxes onto the uppermost shelf, standing on tiptoe to do it, the tightening of her calves and arching of her feet sent a rush through her body. Her eye fell closed and she was lying in cool sheets, back bowed, her head turned to the side in pleasure, watching the snow fall outside. She opened her eye and the snow was still falling, right there in the garage.

Dust. Dust from the disturbed shelf.

Telling herself to get a grip, she quickly finished her task and walked through the connecting door into Mark’s house.

“Mark’s studio” was perhaps more accurate. His personal living space had been reduced to one room off the kitchen that housed a queen bed and a desk almost as large. The rest of his home was all business. A kitchen with two Keurigs, three microwaves, a kettle on the stove and an electric one on the counter, an entire cabinet of tea, snacks laid out daily by Sewanee, and what felt like hundreds of cups to her, the person responsible for cleaning them. There was an oversized fridge, full of every kind of milk and milk substitute, condiments and sauces, and a produce bin consisting entirely of the audiobook narrator’s secret antidote to mouth noise: green apples. No one knew why they worked (Acidity? Tannins?), but they did. Alice had once proposed they all get green apple tattoos until someone–probably Mark–had pointed out green blobs would look like a disease.

Each of the four bedrooms upstairs had a booth and soundboard in them. The living and family rooms had been taken over with workstations for the editors and engineers Mark kept on staff. Even now, on a Sunday night, there was a low-level buzz of activity as two editors hunched over their desks, headphones on, reading along to the recording they were listening to; stopping when they noticed a mistake, marking the script, and preparing a package of pickups for the narrator. Sewanee noticed the newer engineer tapping out a perfect drum beat on his thigh with a pencil while listening to the recording. So, another musician, then. This was not unusual. Most sound engineers came into the industry through the music door.

All these guys (they were mostly guys) were young and enjoyed the communal friendliness of the studio. Of being above it all in the Hollywood Hills, of grabbing a drink with the others down on Franklin before heading home. More than one band had formed in Mark’s living room over the years.

Most days, Sewanee felt like a House Mother at a frat. If the frat were full of nice, mildly-alt sound nerds.

She passed by the two editors without being noticed. That changed when Mark called out from his office, “Swan!” He’d heard the garage door. He heard everything.

She walked into his bedroom/office and found his lanky, sinewy-fit form sitting at his desk, casted foot propped up, peering at his computer monitor over the tops of his wire-frame glasses.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I stopped by Costco on the way home from the airport, replenished the K-Cups. I went to the one they opened up on Sherman Way? Man, that whole area is growing, huh? And how great is it flying into Burbank? I don’t know why anyone would ever use LAX. How’s the foot?”

Now he was peering at her. “Is this caffeine or cocaine?”

“I’m excited to see you is all.”