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guitar’s neck.
    “Sure, but let’s do a run-through first,” said Denise. The heartbeat of their music, she was also the conscience of the band’s claim to professionalism. They hadn’t practiced in ten days. So, the four shrugged halfway through their set list: “Shitty Citizen,” “Temporary Feeling,” “The Houseguest,” and “Hell Is for Buildings.” Then worked a few times over the ending to “Canary in a Coke Machine,” struggling with the elusive full-stop timing. The band possessed these five songs, and five more. It was enough to make a set which, crisply played, lasted thirty-five minutes. A credible duration, if you relied on between-song patter and false starts, plus a break after “Sarah Valentine” and, you’d have to hope, a round of applause calling them back to the stage to finish with “Secondhand Apologies.” Credible, except the band was sick of “Crayon Fever” and “Temporary Feeling.” The oldest songs in their set, both felt embarrassing and slight. They all rooted for Bedwin to write more songs. He hadn’t in a while. Not that anyone meant to start panicking about it.
    Lucinda adored thumping the fat strings of her instrument, constructing with the stretched notes a physical bridge between Denise’s peppery beat and Bedwin’s chords, a bridge across which Matthew’s voice could scurry or shamble or cavort. She felt she ought to hide her secret passion for rehearsal, the uncommon extent of pleasure she felt in simply generating the same figures over and over, those low, mumbling bass lines Bedwin had scripted with her capacities in mind. She wasn’t the fastest, but she’d been assured by better players that she possessed all anyone needed: She swung. She had feel. Lucinda took solace in these notions without comprehending them fully. Bass players were a secret guild, each abiding with the ungainly, disrespected instrument for the thankless benefit of music itself. Lucinda had read somewhere of the argument as to who derived the most pleasure from the sexual act, the male or the female. She felt certain the musical reply would be: the bass player.
    Halfway through teaching the band his new song—he’d stepped to the drums and quickly set a rhythm figure for Denise to play, shown Lucinda a bass line by playing it on the upper two strings of his guitar, then strummed chords for Matthew to follow—Bedwin seemed to lapse into glazed discouragement at his spot on the gingham cushions. The song was sprightly and appealing, its changes easy to remember and play, and the band cycled through several choruses hopefully, waiting for Bedwin to further enlighten them. But rather than suppling lead lines on his guitar or offering Matthew a lyric, he fell to silence, then issued a faint moan. The players ground to an incongruent halt.
    “Hey, Bedwin,” said Matthew. “You okay?”
    “Sure…sorry…”
    “Bedwin,” said Denise, more sharply. “Did you eat anything today?”
    “Um, sure, yeah.”
    “Tell me what you ate.”
    “I, uh, definitely had some raisin bran.”
    “I mean any dinner or anything, Bedwin. Before coming to rehearsal.”
    “I can’t tell you exactly when it was,” he mumbled defiantly.
    Sighing, Denise slid from behind her drums. “I bought some groceries today, all the stuff you like. How about some ginger ale and a baloney sandwich? I got some beer, too, if anyone wants one.”
    Bedwin shifted his guitar to one side, expending minimum effort in freeing himself from its weight, then ambled behind Denise into the kitchen. Lucinda and Matthew were left alone. Matthew ducked his head under his guitar strap and parked his instrument against an amp. Lucinda unloaded her bass. Accompanied by the faint music of Denise’s refrigerator, which began chortling and whining the moment its door was opened, and the tinkering of a blade in jars of mustard and mayonnaise, the two moved to the empty cushions. The ramshackle couch saddled obligingly, dipping their