Perfect Tunes - Emily Gould Page 0,13
until he woke up.
She got out her notebook and started to write down some of her lovelorn thoughts that could be turned into lyrics later on. Eventually she got bored of that and just started doodling. After half an hour she started to feel slightly angry, then even more angry, then resigned. Then angry again. In the end, he made her wait an hour and a half.
He looked hungover as usual, wincing in the sunlight that streamed through the big windows. He put down his backpack and glanced around the room, taking in Laura, her bagel, and her notebook. “Oh, good, you brought something to do. This might take a minute,” he said, and then he went back into the booth to confer with the stern large guy who’d let Laura in. When he came back out he hardly even looked at her again. He sat down with his guitar and tuned it, then nodded to the guy in the booth. The room flooded with the track that Davey and the band had already recorded, another fuzzy banger that wasn’t too hard to imagine playing over the PA in a bar or even at a baseball game. Dylan put his head down and played over it with the same detached intensity that he always did. Laura didn’t know what she was supposed to do. Stare at him worshipfully? Part of her wanted to, but she was also annoyed that their date seemed to consist of her in a corner with a bagel watching him play. Then again, this was what he’d invited her to do, and she’d said yes. She picked at the bagel.
About half an hour later the guy in the booth gave Dylan a thumbs-up and then, within minutes, had packed his stuff and left. Dylan stood up and shook out all his long limbs, then turned to Laura. “Did you bring any more bagels? I’m starving.”
She tamped down a rising surge of annoyance and shook her head. “I brought my guitar, though, I thought you said …”
“Oh, right! I still need to hear you play.” He made this sound like it was something he’d forgotten to buy at the grocery store, eggs or dish soap.
As she unpacked her small guitar from its dorky soft-sided case and sat tuning it, Dylan kept himself busy by rolling a small joint. By the time she was ready to play he was smoking it as casually as if it were a cigarette. He pushed the window open a crack and ashed on the sill.
She paused before starting to play. It felt like an audition. Or she assumed this is what an audition would feel like; she’d never auditioned for anything before. “Well, what do you want to hear?”
“I don’t know, whatever you want to play. Your favorite song? Your best one?”
“People seem to like this one,” she said, then played him “I Want My Tapes Back.” She didn’t know exactly what to do with her face and eyes while she sang, so she mostly looked at the neck of her guitar and out the window. Dylan stayed halfway across the room, smiling inscrutably. He laughed a small knowing laugh—thank God—at the line where the audience was supposed to laugh, the part about “I miss my mix of all Liz Phair / Heavens to Betsy and Huggy Bear.”
“That’s really cute,” he said when she was finished. “I feel like you could make bank if you busked on the subway.”
She stayed silent, hoping that he would say something else that would redeem what he’d just said.
“I mean that in a good way. You’re a great guitar player.”
“Oh! Thanks. No, I’m not.” She deflected compliments habitually, as though to accept one might be rude, though it was probably ruder to tell someone they were wrong. She didn’t play like someone like Dylan, who could probably do things like improvise a solo. She had mostly taught herself, but she liked how she played.
“So … ,” he said, stepping toward her. She became more aware of how they were alone in the studio and felt her whole body flush as she imagined fucking Dylan right where they were standing, or possibly, more comfortably, in the booth, in one of the large, cushiony chairs there. He reached past her, toward what was left of the bagel, and stuffed it in his mouth. “Sorry! I’m totally starved. Let’s get out of here and find a diner or something.” He brushed the crumbs off his mouth and, in the