"Excuse me, you're Lucy Vescio, right?"
The voice sounds familiar, but I don't know where. Maybe someone at work. Or the coffee shop near my apartment. Could it be the lady at Whole Foods who gave me a free apple pie last week and sent me off with a piece of paper that said to eat whenever I felt bad?
I turn slowly around. It's a young man, tall and dressed all in black. His hair is dark and unruly, his eyes large and liquid, and there's a hint of pinkness to his cheeks and lips. He looks incredibly handsome, but something about him seems sad and lonely to me. Like he's looking at the world from far up in an airplane seat and sees nothing beautiful.
He smiles gently and I notice a crooked front tooth. I see he's wearing a bracelet made of interlocking circles; each circle has different colored stones in it. He extends his hand. "Can I call you Lucy? It's nice to meet you."
I shake his hand; I'm still pretty wasted. He holds my wrist. His fingers are slender, delicate. He smells like cigarettes. There's dirt under his fingernails.
"Can we sit down?" he asks, pulling a chair closer to mine. He sits in front of me. I can smell the scent of the restaurant he came from. My stomach growls. I feel so terrible, so awful, that it makes me angry. What's wrong with me? Is this how I normally look when people talk to me? So ugly and stupid. I want to apologize to the man. I want to tell him that I'm sorry, that I'm embarrassed, that I'm a mess. I want to talk to him like people used to talk to me before I turned eighteen.
"So, I heard you were looking for some people for a band..."
"Yeah."
He takes a sip from a glass that he brought with him. I want to ask what he had to drink, I want to say please don't ever touch that again.
"You know your dad had a hit single three years ago?" he says.
My throat feels tight. I keep my mouth closed. I nod. I think he might be talking about the song I wrote. I think I was supposed to meet him today. I think he was going to give me money. I think I need him. I want him to take care of me.
"Anyway, I’m here for... I dunno, are you gonna interview me? Are you guys... I mean, do you have... like... I'm willing to do anything I've gotta do." He laughs to himself. I wish he would stop smiling at me like I'm just another job. I should be making conversation with him like normal people do. I'm not...
"What's your name?" I ask.
"What? Oh, well, my friends call me Max. Everyone calls me Max."
I nod. I'm not sure I'm hearing him right. I'm not really listening to him anymore. "I'm gonna start recording my stuff and I need someone who knows how to play the drums for the tracks. Do you know any drummers?" I blurt out. A voice says something inside my head but it sounds muffled, as if it's coming from far away and underwater.
Max leans back and looks down at me, confused. "Um... Yeah, I'm a drummer. You alright by the way? You kind of sound like you're not."
"No, I am," I mutter, then clear my throat and cough. The water tastes bitter. I try to stand up, but the room spins and I fall sideways. Max lurches to grab me before I hit the ground and I just hang there, panting. He looks surprisingly concerned for a stranger who I've just met, and he helps me to sit on a nearby stool and brings me a bottle of water. He offers me one of his cigarettes and lights them both for us. We smoke in silence. It doesn't seem real to me, this whole thing. I ask him about what's interested him in making music with me. He tells me about the band he plays in. He's been in bands since he was fourteen. His last band broke up a couple of weeks ago because their lead singer got into drugs. I tell him it's nice meeting him. He smiles in response, but I'm starting to feel dizzy again, so we talk less.
When it's time to leave, he insists he's paid enough. It's only after he leaves that I realize I didn't give him my contact.