“Okay, your turn,” I tell her as I reach for the bottle of vodka she’s been neglecting.
“Right, yeah, okay,” she stammers. Her chest expands with a deep breath, and then she opens her mouth and she sings.
Blackhair, thin dark stare
You look good trying not to care.
Big lies, wry little smile,
I've known about you for the longest while.
If my voice has power and rage and force, her voice is made of grace and peace and pure calm. It washes over me like a warm wave, leaving me feeling like I’m floating on each note. I am full of gratitude that she’s close enough I can hear her clearly and that her voice sounds so perfectly pitched, despite my shitty, shitty ears. I’m so carried away with just the sound of her voice, I don’t properly hear the words she’s saying. Or maybe, that’s my bad ear giving me hell again.
“Sing it again,” I demand without explanation, and I turn my body so that my better ear is facing her.
She does as she’s told, with only a brief look of confusion, and I try to ignore how her obedience makes me feel.
This time I’m focusing on the lyrics, but I’m still not unmoved by the delicate tone of her voice.
“What do you think?” she asks a few seconds after she stops.
“It’s … good,” I say carefully. I wanted a better word but couldn’t find one. Not without saying too much. “That last line: ‘I’ve known about you for the longest while.’That’s clever. To everyone else, it sounds like you’ve known abouthimwith the other woman, but to us and to anyone else who wants to read into that, it’s so obviously more than that. It’s so obvious that you’re clearly in love with her.”
Cassie’s face pales, and her eyes widen. “It’s nottooobvious, is it?”
“No, that’s my point. It’s almost so obvious that people won’t see it. You know, like it’s hiding in plain sight.”
“Right. Okay.” Cassie doesn’t sound reassured, but a little colour returns to her cheeks.
“You’re fucking good at this.” I find my packet of cigarettes and pull one out. “You’re a really good lyricist, better than any man I’ve written with.” The pink in Cassie’s face deepens. So fucking pretty. “So, I guess we should write this down.” I throw the pen at Cassie, and she fumbles to catch it.
“Really? You want me to do it?”
“Well, I’m smoking and about to go order some room service. I need to eat.” I stand and walk to the phone by my bed. I have the receiver in one hand and my fingers on the dial when I notice Cassie is frozen in place. “Are you okay?”
“I think you should write it all down,” she says, and she casts the pen aside like it’s just burnt her.
I return the phone to its nook and take a long drag on my cigarette as I return to the table.
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Cassie replies, far too quickly.
“You can’t bullshit a bullshitter,” I say, pointing my cigarette at her. “You’re freaking out about this. Are you changing your mind?”
Cassie looks up at me, her eyes bigger and bluer than I’ve ever seen them.
“No, it’s not that,” she says, holding my stare. “I’m just … I struggle with writing.”
A frown pulls my eyebrows forward. I look at her hands, checking for some disability or injury I’ve missed. She must follow my gaze because a second later, she tucks her hands out of sight, under the table.
“It’s not a physical thing,” she says. “It’s hard to explain. I just … I make a lot of mistakes when I write. Like a lot. And reading is hard, too.”
I sit back down opposite her. “Tell me more.”
“There isn’t anything to tell. That’s it. I make mistakes when I write, spelling mistakes, and I’m not very good at reading. I have a learning disability, that’s what my teachers called it.”
“You’re dyslexic,” I tell her.