Page 11 of The Girl with No Name

“You left the butter out again,” Mason yells from the couch.

I look down at the butter as I undo the twisty tie to get a piece of bread. “You’re supposed to leave the butter out.”

“Not in this place. It’s dirty.”

“Butter is meant to be left out,” I tell him as I spread butter on a piece of bread. “You could leave it out for weeks, and it won’t go bad. When it’s cold, you can’t spread it on bread like I’m doing now.”

“It’s just gross. This isn’t a debate. It’s science. Do you believe in science?”

I suppress a sigh. Relationships are about compromise—friendships too.

After finishing my bread and butter—and putting the butter in the fridge—I decide to leave the two of them alone and not interrupt their date, even though it annoys me that Mason constantly occupies the living space with some new girl when we split rent fifty-fifty.

As I’m brushing my teeth a little while later, I notice something like it’s the first time I’m seeing it. There’s an oil painting of a blue horse hanging in our hall, opposite the bathroom. I’ve looked at the painting hundreds of times since Mason and I moved in together last November. But for some reason, it occurs to me now that the painting is way different than anything Mason likes. It’s not his vibe.

Mason is a Bud Light kind of guy—Rolling Rock on a fancy night. He likes to watch sports and gamble. He’s not an I-buy-indie-artwork-at-farmers-markets type. And this painting is so detailed. A blue horse grazes on green grass with a bright, brilliant lime green sun setting in a purple sky. There are mountains behind it.

I wonder where he got it. It’s one of those things you never think to ask.

Back in my room, I try to read the book I’ve been working on this week—Bruce Springstein’s autobiography—but I can’t concentrate. So I close it and try to fall asleep, but my mind is a swirl of stresses.

Samantha’s job, the ring I bought for her.

Mason’s dick, blue horses.

But Charlie Dunn’s getting in tomorrow. Thursday. He’s always a breath of fresh air.

3

REED

“BLUE HORSES” – REED WALKER

The next morning, I wake up to the sound of Mason banging away with someone. It doesn’t sound like the girl he was with last night. But what do I know? Maybe she sounds different when she’s between the sheets.

It’s a special kind of torture to have to listen to that when my woman is two-thousand miles away in California.

I have a melody in my head, though. So I grab my guitar from the stand and play it.

I work out the song on my morning walk to work, and when I arrive, I boot up my computer and google this concert festival Dunn has been bugging me about. But then I have to stop to write down the lyrics.

Blue Horses:

Blue horses in my dreams

Ridin’ high in the clouds, wild and free

Blue horses, what do they mean?

Kiss me darlin’, you belong with me

“Writing songs over there?”

I quickly shut my notebook when Jay walks into our cubicle. “Yeah, actually.”

He laughs. “You’re one of a kind, Reedy.” He sips his coffee and looks at my computer screen over my shoulder. “Trying to go to a concert this weekend?”

“Nah, it’s silly,” I say, X-ing out of the box.