I’m in the dark with music playing quietly when I hear the distinctive call of a car horn. For a second I don’t want to respond. I just want to stay in the dark and not look at anything. But I know that horn, and I know its owner as well. That knowledge is enough to stir me to action, albeit slowly. I pull myself up from my trench of self-pity and quietly leave my room, also leaving the turntable running on its endless spinning journey.
Downstairs I can hear the TV, but nothing else. She must be asleep by now. I think for a second about going in to see if she is, but I know better than to punish myself further. If she’s asleep, leave her. If she’s awake, leave her. There's no difference either way.
The air outside is humid. I can feel the moisture coalesce on the skin between my fingers. Macy is leaning against the hood of her convertible, checking her nails. She looks at me and sighs.
“What was it this time?” She asks indifferently. “Bach or Handel?”
I look at her with a passive expression. “Mozart."
“Mmm-hmm.” She nods at the vehicle. “Get in the car. Let’s drive, and you can talk it over.”