At your local bar’s trivia night, the first question announced is related to music. You notice Chris’ friends eyeing how he keeps his hand on your leg under the table.

"We’ve got this," one of them says.

"She’s got this," Chris says. His friends roll their eyes.

The guy at the bar picks up the mic and reads the question from his phone. “What musical artist, with hit “ADHD”; has stated in several interviews that his favorite cereal is Fruity Pebbles?”

Chris looks at you and you both say “Kendrick” at the same time. His friend shoves his beer toward you both, leaning back in the booth. “Seriously? You guys are the fucking worst.”

"Let’s put ten on it," you say. Chris takes your face with both hands and shakes your head a little bit.

"Mm," he says, getting up to scribble 10 points on the team card. As he walks toward the bar with it, he yells, "Jabba the Slut is team number ONE!"

"I just don’t understand how this happened overnight," Logan breathes. The girl he shares his studio with sits innocently on a Victorian style couch across the room, eyeing the damage. "It’s a metal sculpture. It needed time to cool off before somebody fucked with it."

"Can you fix it?" you ask, chewing minty gum. You stand over him, your hands in the pockets of your chambray dress. Logan glances at you, first at the hem of your skirt, which ends at mid-thigh, and then slowly up at your face.

"It’s going to take all night," he says, studying your expression.

"That’s fine, I’ll get take-out and chill here while you work."

The girl across the studio, whose name you can’t remember, shifts uncomfortably on the couch. You wonder briefly if she was hoping to get him alone.

"You are a constellation," Logan says. He reaches for the closest part of you to touch, and slips his fingers around your ankle. His focus returns to the pieces of his sculpture shattered on the ground.

"Babe, it’s my parents’ beach house. I wanted you to dress up a little bit."

Casey steps out of the car you rented to drive down the shore. With a great flourish, he points to his tan jeans. “See? Khakis.”

"Those aren’t khakis, they’re khaki colored."

He looks down at them, holding the keys in one hand. “What the hell?”

"Didn’t you bring like…slacks to wear to dinner?" You had made note of his two dufflebags when he threw them into the trunk back in the city.

"Slacks? What am I, Diane Keaton?"

You’re outside a show with one finger in your ear and your phone pressed against the other side of your face. Troy’s phone must have died, because you keep getting the voicemail recording.

"You’ve reached my cell phone but I can’t pick up because of reasons. Please leave your name, number, whether or not we’ve had sex, whether you’d be willing to have sex at some point in the future, and a brief explanation of why Macklemore bothers you."


"Should I get a better copy of Wish You Were Here or this new M. Ward thing?” You wish Louis’ tight jeans didn’t do something so primal to you, but it’s a guilty pleasure watching him maneuver around the record store. He’s wearing a floral shirt of yours under his hoodie, because he showed up at your apartment shirtless last night, streaked in body paint.

"I don’t know, I want to get back to the house at some point," you say. Louis takes his hat off to run a hand through his hair. He puts his hat back on.

"Yeah, I know. I’m asking if you want to have sex to Pink Floyd or this crappy acoustic shit you like." He stares at you blankly. "I’m asking because I love you."

"I guess Pink Floyd," you say, leaning back on a stack of DVDs.

"And that’s why," he says. "AND THAT’S WHY!" He holds the record above his head, yelling at the other two people in the store.

"Stop," you say, fighting a smile.

"You stop."

You moved to Nashville with Nolan when he got into the MFA program at Vanderbilt, and the two of you found a studio apartment above a guitar store. He reads you Flannery O’Connor outloud, hanging his long legs out the fire escape, leaning back onto the window sill.

You stand inside, moving bacon around on a skillet. You jump a little to avoid the hot oil that pops.

The writer operates at a peculiar crossroads where time and place and eternity somehow meet. His problem is to find that location,” Nolan reads.

"So are we in the right location?"

He shrugs, not looking away from his book. You like how he licks his thumb before turning a page.

"Before you started sleeping over at my place, I used to watch ASMR videos to get myself to sleep." You’re both sitting on his bed. Jake puts his hands together and holds them between his knees, like he does when he’s nervous.

"Is that like hypnosis?"

"No, it’s like…fucking weird, I don’t know. It’s girls pretending to do stuff while whispering."

"Like sex?"

Jake laughs, covering his face with his hands. “No, like being receptionists and whatever. It’s supposed to be boring.”

"Do you want me to talk about boring stuff?"

He opens his fingers and looks at you through them.

You lean forward onto your hands, brushing your mouth against his ear. “Like this?”


David kisses your nose gently, waking you up. “Please don’t make me go to any of your improv shows.”

"Please stop putting your dirty clothes in my laundry hamper like I’m not going to notice."

He smirks down at you. “Deal.”

Your friend took a picture of you both at the bar. “I’m going to tag this,” she said, grinning at you too obviously.

"I’m not on Facebook," Chris said.

Now you’re at work, still thinking about him, and your phone buzzes on your desk.

Young Dads has sent you a friend request

You press “confirm” and send him a private message.

"You realize having a Facebook for your band still counts, right?"

You follow Nathan out the back for a smoke break, and the band continues to fuck around audibly until the door shuts behind you. It’s cold out. You wish you had brought a jacket.

Nathan meets your eyes, but you both look away. When you glance up again, he’s still staring at you over his cigarette.

"Oops," you say, looking down. "This is going to be weird, huh?"

You think about him rolling into your motel bed last night. He had just brushed his teeth. He was the only one in the band to remember to do that after drinking all night. You snuck out of bed and onto the couch when the sun came up.


You both say nothing, exhaling into the cold air, looking in opposite directions.

He clears his throat. “You wanna make out about it?”

ros7ie asked: Is this a book ur writing or just scenarios? They are really good!

I’m going to start writing them again! They’re just stand-alone scenarios. Thanks for reading :)

You’ve been waiting months to see what Allston was putting in the old building that used to be a Tag’s hardware store.

One evening you’re both out for a smoke, walking down the sidewalk away from Tommy’s party, when you see the beginnings of a lit-up neon sign on the refurbished building.

"Trader Joe’s," Tommy says, smoke furling from his teeth. "Fuck yeah."

"We could just skip going to brunch and eat at your place," you say quietly. Your suggestion is greeted with complete silence. Cole’s friends stare at you, and you squirm on the wooden bench. Cole himself leans toward you, sighing.
"Not to mansplain this to you," he says using air quotes around ‘mansplain,’ "but brunch only works if you’re going somewhere other than your kitchen." His voice oozes pity. "Let me remind everyone here that my girlfriend moved from Minnesota, and it is impossible to take the country out of the girl."