The rehearsal space smells like dust and burnt wires and lemon cleaner. My boyfriend says it smells like success. My boyfriend also plays lead guitar bought by his dad. The van, the cables and the studio space—all bought by his dad. Which is why I can’t dump him. Which is why this band is even booking gigs.
The amp hums without anyone touching it.
Ash says it’s bad wiring.
Along the back wall, Ash leans with her bass hanging from the strap. Tipped on one foot, the other braced against the amp. She rolls her t-shirt sleeves up to her shoulders and fixes them there with paperclips and sheer will. Her arms are defined in the quiet way that means she lifts things without making a big deal about it.
Ash always plays like she’s bored—which makes it better, my boyfriend says. I agree not because he’s my boyfriend, but because it’s Ash.
Ash drives the same way. Like she knows the road will move out of the way for her.
She taps her fingertips on the steering wheel at each red light. Long and slow, like she’s counting time in her head.
When she stretches, I notice the patches of hair under her armpits.
People say Ash is butch. Like it’s another name that fits. She just shrugs when they say it.
I tell her she looks comfortable. The ghost of a smile brushes her lips and she says she is.
I watch her hands.
Where am I taking you?
Home.
Yeah, obviously. Which one?
I hesitate. My boyfriend’s place is closer, but he’s going drinking with his cousins and won’t be back until late. It’s the only reason he asked Ash to drive me. It’s the only reason I’ve exhaled since leaving the studio space.
I say, Mine. Then add, my good straighteners are there.
Ash actually laughs. Not loud but unabashed, so unlike Ash that I startle.
Great reasoning, she says. Good straighteners. Sure.
I don’t comment. There’s nothing to say.
Earlier, she tuned my microphone stand without asking, twisting the metal until it stopped sliding down. She did it in about two seconds and went right back to picking at the low string of her bass.
She also opened the car door before I got in. Because her car should have given out two owners ago and the door needs someone with more upper body strength than a sparrow.
I don’t meet her eyes when I say it.
You look like someone’s boyfriend.
She bites the inside of her cheek. She doesn’t look at me when she replies.
Good thing you already have one.
I rummage through the glove box and light a cigarette to give my hands something to do.
Hands.
Ash.
Ash’s hands.
I should be the lead singer who keeps her voice clean and dates the lead guitarist.
I shouldn’t be watching Ash’s hands. And I sure as hell shouldn’t be writing songs about them.