Page 2 of Your Rhythm
“Vraiement,Kay?” Pierre butts in. “Even I know who Ace Turner is, and I’m not even a music freak like you. He’s the front man for Sherbrooke Station.”
“Ugh, them?” I groan, turning back to Marie-France. “Do I have to?”
I see her fight to keep the smile off her pursed lips.
“Ouais, Kay. You have to. I emailed you the details. It’s at seven.”
She struts away, swinging her arms like a drill-sergeant as she goes.
“Awesome,” I mutter to myself. “That’s really convenient timing. Let’s just extend Kay’s work day for as long as possible, why don’t we?”
“If you wanted a nine to five job, you really picked the wrong field,” Pierre chides.
“I have another interview at eight in the morning tomorrow,” I shoot back. “I don’t want to spend my evening listening to the latest Tumblr craze give me a few half-assed answers I could have predicted myself. It already takes me almost an hour to get back to fuckingVerdunevery night.”
“Well that’s your fault for living in fucking Verdun.”
I glare at him. “How does Marie-France even know who Sherbrooke Station is?”
“Everyone in Montreal knows who Sherbrooke Station is. What do you have against them, anyways? I think they’re pretty good.”
I stare out the window at the snowflakes getting pulverized by drafts of frigid air, trying to come up with an explanation for why I can’t stand the band nobody seems to be able to stop talking about.
“They seem so...synthetic,” I attempt. “It’s like Atlas Records decided to just pull a band together based on the current trends in male sexiness. It’s like they’retoocool, you know? It just bugs me.”
Pierre stares at me like I’m crazy and I don’t blame him. I can’t deny their songs are good, for now at least, but experience shows that anyone who signs with Atlas is usually on the brink of selling out and losing any trace of originality.
I could be biased, given my history with the record label, but something about the dishevelled haircuts and sculpted, tattooed arms of the absurdly hot guys who make up Sherbrooke Station still pisses me off whenever I see them pop up in my news feed.
“Her name was Alexandra but I met her in Sofia...”
“Oh my god, Pierre, please no.”
It’s no use. He spends the next five minutes humming the tune of their hit song ‘Sofia’ as I throw balled up sticky notes at him from my desk.
