Friday night band practice is wrapping up–ears ringing, backs sweating, throats warm with lingering lyrics.
“What’s everyone getting into tonight? Joanie wanna come over and paint my toes?” Stella asks as she clicks closed her Fender case.
“Oh my god YES, I’ve been DYING to paint your nails! PLEASE let me touch your big sweaty feet!”
“Alright alright I sense your sarcasm. Also, my big feet are CUTE and you know it.”
Joan inserts a da-dum chhh with her drumset for added effect, pulling forth laughs from Luc and Mags.
“What if I throw in my signature late night nachos…eh? I know you can’t resist my perfected nacho stack.”
“What color we painting these nails? Let’s gooooo!”
It’s true–Joan can’t resist Stella’s snacks. As the two friends argue the merits of green nail polish and walk out the garage door into the chilly night, Mags and Luc look at each other, the room that moments ago was filled with rhythms and banter…now quiet. Very quiet.
“Hey, uh, Happy St. Paddy’s day.” attempts Luc.
Mags raises their eyebrow, the corner of their mouth, in response. How come when we play music…it feels like we know each other, like, know know each other…but when we have to talk, we both seem a little lost?
“Do you know how I like to celebrate?” Luc continues.
“...how?”
“Let me show you.”
The two climb into Luc’s 1993 red Mustang, and as Luc starts the car he inserts a Breeders cassette tape, “Cannonball” filling the valley between them, transmuting the awkwardness into connection, clicking them into each other like the seat belts they fasten.
Mags drums on their thighs while Luc sings along to Kim Deal, shaking his head to quick riffs of guitar, swerving the Mustang just a tiny bit, inducing some nervous but genuine laughter from them both.
Eventually, he pulls into…a McDonald’s drive thru?
What the? Have I not told him I don’t eat meat? Mags panics slightly but only for a moment because then they hear Luc’s velvet voice croon “Two large shamrock shakes, please” into the speaker.
“Oh my god, the last time I had a shamrock shake, I was definitely high, and I was probably 17.”
“What do you think you were listening to then?”
“Oh, for SURE Fall Out Boy and Motion City Soundtrack. Some Black Keys, probably.”
The cashier hands them their shakes and Luc pulls into a parking spot, giving Mags both shakes to hold as he rifles thru his tapes. “No FOB, Motion City, or Keys…can I interest you in some Alanis?”
“Um, always. Rest assured, you can always interest me in some Alanis.”
As they coat their throats with creamy, sweet green dairy, it doesn’t stop them from belting “You Oughta Know,” “Forgiven,” and “Wake Up,” their embodied angst cooled by the mint of their shakes.
Mags steals a glance at the grip of Luc’s red nails around his plastic cup, the way his eyes close tight with a mix of music pleasure and milkshake satisfaction, the whip cream at the corners of his mouth.
We might not have much to chat about, Mags muses, but give us music and green milkshakes and we have language.
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