Page 39 of Your Echo
We say our goodbyes in the foyer. I head up the sidewalk, the strains of music drifting out of open windows reminding me of that first walk I took with Ace. We’ve taken a lot of walks since; we’ve gotten in the habit of ending our meditation classes with an ice cream or a trip to Parc Lafontaine. That first walk was the only time we’ve been together in the dark, though.
In some ways, I feel like I’m only getting to see one side of Ace, meeting him in the daylight. He’s the kind of man who was made for the night, for singing on stages in smoky rooms with that rasping, keening voice of his. He calls to the darkness in people, croons to it, coaxes it out.
I shiver despite the warmth of the night, suddenly glad I don’t get to see that side of him.
My apartment building comes into view. I can see our kitchen window from here. Molly’s face and cloud of curly hair comes into view for a moment, her head bent over the sink before she disappears again. I lean my back up against a lamppost, not quite ready to brave the stuffy air of our apartment just yet. The heat wave is finally breaking, but our place doesn’t have enough ventilation for that to make much of a difference.
I pull my phone out to check the time and see I have a text notification from Ace. We traded numbers a week ago after he was late for a session and I almost walked out, assuming he wasn’t going to show.
Are you busy tonight?
I can’t figure out how seeing that question under his name makes me feel, but whatever it is, it sets my heart racing. I type and re-type about five different replies before I settle on one.
Sort of. I have class in the morning. Why?
He takes a few minutes to respond.
We just wrapped up a day of recording. I haven’t eaten in about nine hours and I’m at a pizza place near your street.
I ask him what that has to do with me being busy. His reply comes right away.
Care to join me?
* * *
Twenty minutes later,I’m sliding into a booth at a pizza chain as Ace takes the seat across from me. A large Hawaiian pizza sits on the table between us.
“You’re a bad influence,” I announce.
He smirks. “You are far from the first person to say that. I won’t deny it’s true, but how exactly am I being a bad influence right now?”
“This pizza,” I tell him, “and all the ice cream. I dance for a living. I have to maintain a very balanced meal plan, and you’re fucking it up.”
“I really don’t think your lithe physique is going to be endangered by some ice cream and pizza,” he argues.
“It’s not about weight gain or carbs or anything like that,” I explain. “I probably eat double the amount of food you do. It’s just that I try to put healthy stuff in my body. It does a lot of work for me, and I like to take care of it.”
He presses his palms together in front of his chest and bows his head.
“My body is a temple,” he mocks.
“My bodyisa temple!” I protest.
Ace laughs as I pry a piece of pizza out of the box. I thought he was exaggerating when he told me he hadn’t eaten for nine hours, but it seems I was wrong. I’m only halfway through my first slice when he reaches for his second.
“So,” he says, after making it all the way down to the crust, “what did you do today?”
“Was that meant to be condescending?” I ask. “Like, ‘Oh, I recorded a new album with my famous band today. What didyoudo with your little pleb life?’”
“Pleb?” he scoffs. “I would never use the word ‘pleb,’ and to answer your question, no. It was not meant to be condescending. I genuinely want to know what you did today.”
I don’t even have to say it out loud. My next question echoes between us without me voicing it.
Why?
Why does he care about what I did today? Why are we eating pizza together on a night when we’ve got no excuse to be in each other’s company, other than that we enjoy it? Why does it feel like the few feet of space between us is suddenly way too much to tolerate, especially when he’s staring at me the way he is now?
“I had a shower,” I blurt.
