Page 107 of A Little Broken

Sensing my discomfort, Pax sits on the edge of the bed, leaving an inch of space between us. “You don’t have to answer.”

“I love the idea of him,” I whisper. “And maybe that’s all it ever was because, like I said, he never returned any of those feelings, but…I guess I’m a sucker for an underdog story, and knowing Archer will never get his…moment in the spotlight or whatever, it sucks. And it isn’t fair. And I guess, for a girl who grew up reading and absorbing as many happily-ever-afters as she could, it’s a hard pill to swallow.”

“What is?”

“The realization of how few happily-ever-afters actually unfold in real life.” I shove my hair away from my face and press my finger into the corner of my eye again. “God, maybe I’m still drunk. I have no idea why I’m telling you this.”

Pax shifts closer to me on his bed, and for some reason I can’t explain, I don’t pull away. If anything, I fight the urge to move closer.

“Have you ever heard of the composer John Cage?” he asks.

“What?”

“John Cage,” he clarifies. “He’s from the 1930s or something like that.”

I shake my head. “Yeah, no. I’ve never heard of him.”

“His most famous piece is probably 4’33”.”

“Haven’t heard of that one, either,” I note.

He smiles. “It’s a song where the performer is supposed to sit in silence for four minutes and 33 seconds while the audience listens to whatever sounds are going on in the room. Things likethe air conditioner humming, or other people shifting around in their seats, or the traffic passing by outside. Shit like that.”

I quirk my brow. “Sounds like a nutjob.”

“Maybe a little.” He pauses, his smile softening. “He had this other song, though. ‘As Slow As Possible.’ People who would perform it were instructed to play the song as slow as possible. And I mean aaaas sloooow aaaas poooossssiiiiblllle.” He drags out the words, emphasizing them.

My brows lift. “Like literally?”

“Yeah. Literally. Then he died,” Pax says with a shrug. “And all of these people tried to figure out a way to…memorialize the guy. This board gets together, calculates the length of the song and how long each note should play so the piece stays accurate to Cage’s composition. They decide to pick a location in some small town in Germany and use a church to play the song the way it was meant to be played. As. Slow. As. Possible. Wanna take a guess how long the performance is?”

“I don’t know? A few hours, maybe?”

The mattress dips as he leans closer, stealing all my attention. “Six hundred and thirty-nine years.”

My eyes bulge. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” He chuckles. “Crazy, right?”

“How is that even possible?”

“They use an organ, since the pipes are able to hold a note or chord for an extended period of time. A piano string will stop vibrating at some point,” he clarifies, “but an organ? It goes and goes as long as there’s air passing through it.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not joking. Six hundred and thirty-nine years, Birthday Girl.”

With wide eyes, I rest my back against the headboard. “That’s insane.”

“Yeah, it’s playing as we speak.”

“The same note,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Yeah. The same note. Then, based on the mathematical calculation, when it’s time for a new note to play, someone from the church is tasked with changing the chord. It’s a huge event. People travel from across the world when it happens.”

“Just to hear the chord change.”

“Yeah.”

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