5

5

Angus

You win some, you lose some. So I told myself, but the rebuff hit hard. I knew full well I wasn't everyone's cup of tea. Sir Isaac had said he was both queer and single, though, so I should've stood some kind of chance. Maybe it was the gravity story. Had I come off as a pseudointellectual douchebag who was too fond of my own voice? It wouldn't be the first time.

And yet, back there…I kinda thought we'd shared a moment.

After work, I was in my kitchen scrolling through a recipe, hoping to drown my sorrows in some super spicy dal palek, when an alert dinged my phone. A review from last night's gig. Just the first few words: AndHedonia Started with a Bang … and I tapped it without questioning whether it was something I actually wanted to see. Opinions are like assholes, after all—but a heck of a lot less useful.

This particular review didn't disappoint.

AndHedonia started with a bang, three power chords that promised a nostalgic, grunge-punk retro rock experience, and quickly devolved from there into the self-indulgent navel gazing characteristic of all of Angus White's songwriting attempts…

I X'ed out of the review, powered off my phone and lobbed it onto the couch, but the words self-indulgent navel gazing remained scorched on my retinas as I put together my meal, studiously ignoring the way the swirls and whorls on the spice jars from the ethnic grocer reminded me of a certain orange-stickered can.

It was careless of me to get sucked into looking at that review. If opinions are like assholes, reviewers are the assholes. Especially the self-important jerks who garner all their music cred from shitting on everything they hear.

Why waste my time regurgitating a tune that had been done to death? Not all songs needed to be a three-chord ditty with a strong hook and a chorus everyone could sing along to. Unfortunately, while most people claim they want something new, they're actually hoping to hear those same three stupid chords, albeit with a slightly different hook.

Normally, I don't give a damn what anyone thinks, but this jerk of a reviewer had managed to slap up against my biggest fear—that no one would ever understand me. Or maybe he was just grinding salt into the rejection I'd faced back at the register.

This called for more chilis.

I stirred the pot, stewing. It's not like I was incapable of writing a standard, predictable rock song—it was that I shouldn't have to. I didn't want to sell out.

Though would I be more successful by now if I had?

Probably.

But at what cost?

The dal was thickening and I turned down the burner, while in a separate pan, I sizzled my spices in ghee to pour over the top. Ah. Now that cleared the sinuses. Those chilis would pack a nice wallop. I was just about to serve it up when I was interrupted by a knock on my door. At first, I presumed it was a not-so-gentle reminder from my upstairs neighbor that while she likes fenugreek as much as the next gal, there's only so much she can take. But she was off tending bar across town…and, come to think of it, that knock had been way too polite for her tattoo-laced knuckles.

With a weird little surge of anticipation that I immediately discarded, I pulled open the door, already telling myself that no way would Newton have gone through the trouble of tracking me down.

And yet, there he was, wind-tousled and earnest-eyed.

"So, I hope I don't come off as a stalker," he said, all in a rush. "I've been regretting turning you down all day. When I went back to the store after class, you were already gone, and one of the other cashiers gave me your number. I tried calling, but it went right to voicemail. And then he told me where you lived and it was just a block away…" he shrugged helplessly.

I've always thought caution was for wet paint and choking hazards, but I was leery of this sudden change of heart. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I planned on staying in tonight."

When I moved to close the door (honestly, not all that forcefully), he blocked it with the side of his foot. "That's just it. When I said no, back there at the register, it wasn't that I didn't want to go out with you . I did. Immensely. But I'm flat broke, and I couldn't really go out at all—"

"Wait a sec. Stop right there." On one hand, the immensely part went a long way to soothing my bruised ego. But on the other…. I indicated myself with an impatient wave of my hand: tattered jeans, holey chucks, and a misprinted band T-shirt with a crooked logo. "You think I care about money?"

"No idea. I don't know you well enough for your preferences to figure into the equation. It was me. My problem. That the minute you suggested going out, all I could do was rank all the local restaurants by cost…and admit that I couldn't even afford to eat off the dollar menu." He paused, then mumbled, "Not with sales tax, anyhow."

"I'm not big on tradition, which just seems like another way to make people like us flail around navigating gender-normative bullshit, but come on. It was my invite. I would've picked up the tab."

Newton closed his eyes as if he was counting to ten—hell, maybe he was calculating its square root—then opened them and said, "How could I accept, knowing I was in no position to reciprocate?"

"You're confusing a date with a transaction."

"All relationships are transactional."

"Is that what you think?" I asked, in all sincerity. "If so, you sorely need to wrap your head around the concept of win-win. You join me for something other than a quick flirtation at the register, we get to know each other. Who knows? Maybe we both end up getting what we want. That's not so hard to imagine—if we're both looking for the same thing."

As I spoke, I'd closed the small distance between us, feeling bold again. Maybe even daring him to chicken out and run away. And when he stood his ground, my leg brushed his—and bumped up against something hard.

Our banter hadn't been that arousing. The hardness wasn't inside his pants, anyhow. It was in his overcoat pocket. A perfectly cylindrical, can-shaped hardness.

He locked eyes with me.

And I've always loved a challenge.

I slipped my hand inside. The pocket interior was warm where it touched his body, but the can was slightly cool. I pulled it out and held it up between us so we could both take it in. Lit from the yellow incandescent of the hallway on one side to the cool blue bulb of my vestibule on the other, the label's printing visually vibrated on the liminal space of the threshold, sparkling with flecks of mica and gloss I hadn't noticed under the fluorescents of the store. But the swirly cursive looked the same. Not to mention the slightly crooked orange label I'd slapped on.

"Well, well, well, Sir Isaac. What have we here?"