Page 11 of Steam

Barrett needed him that night. The confrontation with Josh had his blood pressure up, and he needed the sort of distraction that television or a book just couldn’t provide. At 7:58, he poured a glass of wine and forced himself to sit down on the couch.

At eight, he heard the piano bench scrape across the floor. His neighbor began to play.

It took Barrett a split second to place the distinct fluttering of notes that reverberated through his ceiling, but by the first staccato double chords, he recognized it: Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata—the third movement. It wasn’t a relaxing song in the least, but the building emotions that spilled over the keys above Barrett certainly matched his stormy mood.

He played louder than usual, hammering out abrupt notes that punctuated the piece. It was as if he were angry on Barrett’s behalf.

As he listened, Barrett went on a journey with him through the hour. He’d abandoned Satie that night, his selections a crazy patchwork of emotional music from different time periods. Barrett’s anger was transformed as the music continued, and by the time he’d poured himself a second glass of wine, his upstairs neighbor had moved on to quieter, intricate melodies.

He finished off the hour with a Chopin waltz, played much slower than the piece called for but adeptly performed nonetheless. Barrett dozed off on the couch, all of the stress washed out of him, dreaming of what those talented hands might be like, attached to a lover.

* * *

It wasn’tJosh’s fault that the mail system at the condos was fubar.

The worst thing of it was that he couldn’t get anything delivered to his studio or it got stolen—and he wasn’t about to move his art studio just because it was in a shitty part of town. He’d paid for the damn condo and he had the right to receive whatever he wanted there.

But that Barrett guy must have called the property manager and made a fuss after the night he’d given the collar back, because he’d immediately gotten in trouble for the way his mail was being handled.

Josh was working on a painting series, with everything he created painted on big wooden panels. The paintings were slated to be done by summertime so that they could be included in a big show at the Museum of Contemporary Art. The show was about artists borrowing from other disciplines, so artists participating worked in one medium to create works about artists who used other mediums.

Josh was painting famous musicians on his wooden panels. His friend Leah was putting together spoken word poetry about a fictional group of Russian ballerinas. He’d heard that one guy was recreating famous photographs with his sculptures. The theme was going strong, and it had been a shock and an honor that the board had selected his paintings. The competition had been stiff.

But if Josh had really thought about the mail situation ahead of time, he probably would’ve scrapped the idea of working with the big, distinct panels. He had to get them shipped to him one by one, and they came in enormous boxes that blocked the rest of the condo’s mailboxes when they were delivered.

So… okay, maybe it was a different resident who had complained about Josh’s packages.

But it was probably Princess, he’d decided.

* * *

“You seriously can’t smokeon your own balcony?” Barrett asked, approaching Josh slowly. He should’ve been too tired to pick a fight, but somehow seeing that jerk smoking on the shared front porch was too much for him to take.

Josh rolled his eyes. “I can and do. But right now I’m waiting for a package. I have to accept them in person now after someone complained about my deliveries blocking the mailboxes.”

“It wasn’t me,” Barrett said quickly. “I only complained about the one package you stole. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t smoke out here. I have asthma.”

Josh frowned—but to his credit and to Barrett’s surprise, he stubbed the cigarette out on the bottom of his sneaker and pocketed the butt.

Barrett was shocked by the gesture of civility but he didn’t let his poker face slip. He looked for something else to be annoyed about. The other man was sporting a t-shirt with rips and paint splatters.

It’s really remarkable how much some people will pay to cultivate that fake artist look,Barrett thought.

“Is it gonna be alright with you if I sit here?” Josh asked after a moment, sneering. “Or is the sight of me going to upset your asthma, too?”

“You’ve every right to,” Barrett said. “Don’t let me stop you.”

Barrett moved to pass him, thinking the exchange was over. But, of course, things could never be that easy.

“What’s in the briefcase? Please tell me there’s a matching leash in there, Princess.”

* * *

Two days later, Barrett made a discovery that took his crush on the pianist upstairs to a whole new level: he could hear the man practicing from inside his shower.

Barrett noticed it purely by accident. It had been halfway through his nightly concert. He wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing and managed to dump half a glass of wine on himself.

(They had three new, fresh-faced public defenders in the office that week and although Barrett loved their enthusiasm, they’d been absolutely draining him of his energy and ability to concentrate on anything.)

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