18. Spaul

Spaul plugged in the multieffects panel, the jet flange, the treadplate distortion and the harmonic octaver, daisy-chained the stomp boxes together and set the noise gate at eighty decibels. He checked the guitar tuning and put his foot on the wah pedal. The set began, and Spaul strummed variations of the same chord progression for fifteen minutes straight without changing.

"It's just, it's just that I think we should branch out, you know," Spaul stuttered. Peter held up his hand.
"Spaul, North Korean Board of Tourism is a noisepop electrosynth shoegaze band. If you want to explore other styles, that's your business."
"What's that, you mean I should just play the same chords forever?"
"That's up to you. Forcibly emphasizing a harmonic theme is a tenet of the subgenre. It's a very specific subgenre, Spaul."
Spaul was reluctant to quit the band he'd co-founded. He hadn't co-founded it with Peter.

They played another show, and as Spaul counted beats until the breaks where he'd crank up the distortion or turn on the octaver, he watched what Peter did. Writhing with his guitar, making the work of the looping digital echo look like tremendous effort, Peter showboated at the front of the stage, singular notes almost inaudible inside the wall of sound. Spaul pulled the strap over his head and leaned the guitar against the nearest amp, letting the feedback rise to obscene levels as he walked off the stage. It took Peter a couple minutes to realize.

Almost three and a half years later, Spaulding lightly tossed a few bills on the table next to the empty glasses. "I'll get this round," he said, standing up. "Get another if she comes by?"
"To moving up in the world!" One of his friends laughed. "Sure thing, cheers."
The flyer taped above the urinal made Spaulding do a double-take. NKBT.
'Great acronym,' he thought, 'like a dyslexic New Kids on the Block.'
The photo had only one face he recognized. He stared at his former bandmate. The names of the musicians were written below.
"Speter?" He blurted in disbelief. "Speter? That doesn't even make sense!"

12. Stephanie

Stephanie laughed, and immediately felt exactly as she would have if she’d punctured the lid on a can of fish that had spoiled inside the tin. She wished she hadn’t done it. Her mother’s eyes lanced her.
“It isn’t funny.” Her voice was quiet and taut.
“I know, I just…” Steph had time to finish, but she didn’t have the words for it.
“You just nothing. Have some respect.”
Stephanie looked at her feet, studied the grout in the tiles of the kitchen floor. She wasn’t sure why she had laughed. Nothing seemed funny; she wasn’t sure how else to react. Her mother turned back to the telephone. As Stephanie walked to her room, she heard her mother’s voice spilling into the hallway, offering cooing susurrus of consolation not meant for her.

“I think it was, like, this mental image of one of those horse-drawn carts from the olden days, you know? And it, like, losing a wheel or going off the road or whatever.” Stephanie took a sip of grape Fanta, trying not to slurp from the can in case her friend could hear. She took in the other half of the conversation through the plastic pink cellphone and emphatically, though her friend could not see the gesture, rolled her eyes like a pair of volume knobs being twisted to maximum. “I know! My mom just doesn’t understand at all. Like, what’s so great about being what's probably the most crappiest, y'know, way to be, anyways? They’d be so mad if I got that way, but for my sister it’s all, like, good job. If it was me, they’d kill me for sure.” She sat down and looked in the mirror. She looked at the things on her desk, reached for something and stopped, bit her lip. “Yeah no, well, that’s okay because he pulled out.” She sipped at the Fanta again and, finding it empty, threw the can in the garbage.

7. Sophie & Brian

The scar looked like red wax dripping straight down from Sophie's hairline, narrowly missing her eye. She turned towards Brian, and he cringed.
"Long time no see," she said.
He found it difficult to make eye contact.
"Yeah, I uh, I'm glad to see you're up and around."
"Are you kidding? I've been out of the hospital for a month already."
He was silent. She bit her lip, knowing she'd meant that to sound less forceful.
"Look, I don't want you to worry about this," she gestured towards the side of her face, "okay? I'm over it. You don't have to beat yourself up."
Brian made a face like he was trying to force something that wouldn't come. He turned away and expelled the breath he'd been holding in, then tried again with his right hand over his heart. "I think it would be better if..." he trailed off, losing the nerve to admit what she already knew.
Sophie waited, and breathed deeply. She smiled politely. He's such a goddamned actor, she thought. He looked down.
"I can't help blaming myself," Brian said to his feet.
"That's something you'll have to get over."
When he looked up, she was waiting for him. Her gaze locked on to his. She knew exactly how pretty she was, or used to be, and the only penance she asked was that he would carry on like nothing had changed.
"Every time I see it," he began, and looked away. "I hear the squealing tires, the breaking glass..."
"That's a fucking Pearl Jam lyric, Brian." Her voice cracked. She was tempted to hit him. She attempted to calm herself, to keep a grip on the situation. If they shouted it out, she knew he wouldn't call her again. He'd consider it over and try to forget. She had already looked in the mirror and swept her hair over her face in a dozen variations. It didn't work.
He looked at her with uncertainty. No words came. He felt angry that his life hadn't prepared him for this.

"Want to see a movie?"

6. Tasha

Tasha liked Hayden as soon as she set eyes upon him. He always appeared disheveled, and yet composed, as though careless attractiveness were a quality he could not suppress through sheer lack of effort. His manners matched. Tasha could tell Hayden's attention was valuable by how sparingly he laid it out. Eventually she worked up the nerve to approach him, and was relieved to find herself accepted in his presence, not the target of the mysterious, sarcastic scoff he doled out frequently. She had met his unfathomable standards. She felt unique; Hayden was so often alone.

She asked him to have coffee with her and he laconically agreed. They went out. She told him all about herself and he laconically approved, of everything. She told him she found him handsome, and they returned to her dorm room where he laconically made love to her. Afterwards, he began to get dressed. She asked him why. He said something which, though he didn't know it, completely and irrevocably changed the way she perceived him. He might as well have torn off his face.

Once he'd gone, Tasha went out by herself and walked in the snow, inventing obscenities so potent that no words existed with which to express them.