Page 53 of Down Beat
My ass hits an upturned crate at the head of the alleyway. Kill me now. They say there’s no use crying over spilled milk, but in that moment I goddamn crack a right ripper of a tantrum. There is every reason to cry over the puddle of creamy gold that trickles toward the drain.
I try to bring order back into my chaos by reminding myself that this isn’t the first time I’ve wondered how I’m going to eat, but all that does is make the tears come faster when I realize how useless I have to be at this career if I’m back at square one for what, the seventh, ninth time?
How long before I crawl back to Mum and Dad with my tail between my legs and my dignity on fire behind me?
I gain a few stares from passersby, but at this time of the day the area where the theater is remains quiet. It’s tucked between the business district and the industrial side of town; not much foot traffic sees these streets.
I use the hem of my shirt to dab away the remnants of my temporary lapse in sanity. An irritating trill sounds from close by, and first instinct is that I’ve inadvertently set off some building alarm by trying to get in. Yet my reason kicks into gear and reminds me that I’ve been sobbing about my spilled groceries for several minutes now, so if the alarm was to go off, it would have done it straight away.
It takes another solid minute before I realize the sound comes from somewhere on me. The trill stops as I reach for my phone, only to restart again. What the hell? I don’t recognize the alert at all. Did I set an alarm without realizing it?
Rey Thomas – calling from Messenger ...
Well I guess that explains that then; I’ve never used Messenger to call someone. That just goes against my natural instinct to avoid actual human interaction wherever and whenever possible.
I touch the green icon to accept the call, careful not to nudge the video icon. “Hi.”
“You sound like you’re answering even though you know it’s probably a scammer on the other end. Cheer up, cupcake.”
“Sorry.” Words fail me.
I’ve always marveled at how different people can sound on the phone as opposed to in person, but nine times out of ten they sound terrible down the line. Rey, though? Holy fuck, that man could make a woman weep.
“What’s your bank account number?”
I scoff. “Sure. Let me just recite that from memory.”
He huffs. “You do realize you can use your phone while retaining a call, huh?”
Some of us clearly don’t spend as much time doing this as others. “What do you want it for?”
I swear I hear his palm hit his forehead. “Does seven hundred ring a bell?”
“You sorted that?”
“In a manner of speaking.” He stays silent, presumably waiting on me to retrieve the details.
“Just a minute.” I press the home button and navigate to my banking app, praying that I have enough data left to complete both this and his call. “Ready?”
“Born ready, baby.”
I ignore the swimming sensation those words ignite low in my belly and recite my account number for him.
“Sweet. Got it.”
“Thank you for this.”
He huffs out a heavy breath. “Just wanted you to keep the damn flowers is all.”
And just like that I ride the roller coaster of crazy from absolute low mere minutes ago, to a blissful high. I laugh, struggling to kill the lingering giggles as Rey chuckles in response.
“I’ll keep the flowers.”
“Good,” he says with mock seriousness. “Because I didn’t have a fucking clue how I was supposed to return them semi-used.”
“How are you feeling today?”
His end of the line falls deathly quiet before he whispers, “You saw that, huh?”