“Your music is so hopeful. Where is that coming from?” said Talbot.

“Is it?”

“Yeah, lovely. Makes me feel optimistic, which I’m not.”

“I guess it’s perky. I don’t have a good answer for you.”

“We both moan a lot. We’re often rubbing mutually off similar dissatisfactions.”

“Probably, yeah.”

“The track sounds devoid of any of those dissatisfactions.”

“You’re saying I make happy music to escape, rather than to express myself.”

“No, but now that you say it. That’s not the point I was making though.”

“I understand what you are aiming at. There’s truth in it. I figure the conclusion of that line of thinking is that I’m an escapist of some sort. I’m alright with that.”

Talbot dropped the clarifications that would have followed had his opening question gone another way. It had gone well, with a directness that tested and reaffirmed. When someone presented you with their music, artwork, or poetry, the only respectful response was a challenge. This was true for Talbot whether the person was close or anonymous to him. In this instance it was a friend, not too close, and who could be enjoyed a little more than ever needed to be made explicit. How charming.

“Can you send me a copy? I’d like to listen to it again.”

“Yeah of course, check your email on the bus. It’ll be there.”


Buses were pumped full of heat that everyone but Talbot needed to survive their journey. He could never bring himself to open one of the sliding windows and relieve himself of the stilted warm air that wet his forehead and dampened his underarms. It would be a pointless transgression, inexplicable within the silent conversation of public consensus. He would not be a man who was too hot, but a man who didn’t care that others were cold. A couple sat several seats ahead of him, nuzzled into one another like penguins keeping warm. Flecks of rain distorted the suburbs as they turned into the city. A young woman sat across from him breathing heavily and removing her gloves, scarf, and puffy jacket to reveal a woolen jumper that would also come off. “Do you mind if I crack that window just a little?” she said, pert and breathy.

“Yeah go ahead”

“I know it’s cold, I just need to cool down for a second.”

“No no, go ahead.”

She looked like she would have opened it had he said no, or at least like she expected the response she received. She seemed quite likable. Perhaps entitlement, executed in such elementary simplicity, is what lies behind likability. An email buzzed on Talbot’s phone. It simply stated ‘here’ and had an audio file attached. He looked over the email like it had more to say, quietly enjoying the
sound of the window jerking open, and the cold puffs of air that rolled in over the warmth. He fished around in his pockets for a pair of earphones, and pulled out a quickly solved mess. He downloaded the audio file, and was shocked for a moment when it started to play automatically before he could get his earphones jacked. The sound of African drums, electronically rendered and looped, and tinny through the phone speakers, rattled through the bus a little less loudly than Talbot thought, but audibly. He paused it.

“What are you listening to?” said the woman. A rush of cool air slipped over his head and made it easy to answer her.

“A friend’s music. Sorry, I didn’t mean to play it aloud.”

“Are you also a musician?”

“Oh no, not at all. Well, a bit. I can play some instruments poorly. But no, I don’t make music.”

“Oh.”

She was palpably disappointed, amusingly so. It seemed more like an affectation than anything. How charming.

“Would you like to listen to it?” he said.

She instantly moved beside him and took one of the earphones.  He urged her to use both to get a fair impression, but she insisted they listen together. The drums rolled in and she bobbed her head left to right in time. She disappeared into some internal world of musical repetitions, but he guessed that she saw herself watched. It was a bit of a show for him—a staging of her enjoyment. At this point the fun in watching her affected presence curdled, and his spontaneous good will diminished, perhaps not entirely, but he grew tired reacting to her. The track was a bit too long for the interaction that was in it. The track ended, she shook off an artificial daze, inhaled before what looked likely to be an unchallenging slew of compliments. Everything she was about to say already inscribed in her eyes and cheeks. She hesitated. Talbot figured he must not have looked like a particularly warm confidant. He had cooled down quite a bit, in fact. The bus was too cold now.

“Think we should close the window?” he said. She slid back over to her seat and pulled the window closed.

“So you liked my friend’s music?”

“I really did. He? He’s great. I love that kind of music.”

“I’ll tell him that you enjoyed it.”

She pulled back on her puffy jacket, and stuffed her scarf and gloves into a satchel. He considered for a moment.

“What sort of person do you think he is? My musician friend I mean. Based on what you’ve heard.”

“Oh, I’m not sure.”

“Do you not get an impression of some kind?”

“I mean, the track is nice. I don’t know the man who made it though. I couldn’t guess.”

“I think it sounds full of hope.”

“I really don’t know. He could be anything. Don’t you already know him?”

“Yeah, I was interested in your impression precisely because you don’t know him.”

“Put on the spot, I wouldn’t guess at someone based on a piece of music. Maybe he’s a sad guy who makes happy music to cheer himself up?”

“So that’s your impression?”

“No, I don’t really have an impression. I just liked the track.”

The mood soured. The traffic had slowed in the rain, and the bus groaned arrhythmically forward in impotent spurts. Talbot didn’t want to think about this woman, or his friend, but thought about both. He thought about whether they might make better friends with one another than he could with either of them. That might be perfect. They could talk endlessly beside him, and he could listen in, asking questions when it suited him. The woman took off her jacket to put on her jumper before the jacket came on again. She rang the bell and pulled out her scarf, wrapping it firmly around her neck. She looked determined and more attractive in these final moments.

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“David. Gibson. If you want his music, he goes by ‘Kunia’. K-U-N-I-A. There’s a fair bit of his stuff available online.”

“I like that a lot. It suits the music. I’ll have to look him up.”

She walked like she was recovering from a leg injury as the bus swayed around a corner. She had annoyed him a little, and he felt that
she had been annoyed by him. Alone on the bus, now, he forgave her, and scolded himself for being cold, but he forgave himself for even this before arriving at his stop. Perfectly charming.