The Heart Asks Pleasure First/The Promise
(Composer: Nyman, from the film 'The Piano')
"Four," Vinyl Scratch intoned dully, lounging on the cracked leatherette couch with a magazine held loosely under one hoof. "I'm disappointed."
"Your manners haven't improved since yesterday, I see. Normally, a friend would congratulate me on a successful concert, not point out that I hit four bum notes. That I recovered from, might I add," Octavia sniffed, setting about the maintenance of her bow.
"You hit four bum notes. You want friends who lie and say you didn't?" Vinyl asked, an eyebrow raised.
Octavia put her bow gently back into the separate case she reserved for it (if nothing else, she had respect for her instruments) and shut it. "I would like friends who explained to the guards why they need so desperately to wait backstage for me every evening, yes. Security is beginning to grow concerned that you're a stalker."
Vinyl grinned and said nothing. Octavia groaned.
"Come, then. We can discuss my failings over an evening meal, if you're so inclined. A perfect performance is best achieved on a full stomach, my mother used to say."
"Your mother's smart," Scratch replied, and followed her.
The night-time corner café was full of its usual clientèle; the bohemian, the eccentric, the desperate saxophonist pony who busked there night after night and barely made enough to put food in her mouth. Octavia gave her a friendly nod and five bits as she walked in; Vinyl stopped stock still and listened intently for a whole song, her eyes oddly unfocused. The saxophonist, used to somewhat dotty listeners, paid her little mind.
"You're good. Not as good as her," Scratch said, and motioned to Octavia, "but good."
Before emptying her entire purse into the saxophonist's hat.
Octavia widened her eyes, but the saxophonist's reaction was to almost faint. As Octavia duly noted, that purse had been very full. Vinyl grinned at her with but a bare hint of sheepishness, before saying, "Pay for me."
After two salads had been delivered to the their table (out of Octavia's less-than-full pocket), they ate in silence; finally, Vinyl Scratch spoke.
"You're mad at me."
"Not mad. Just...perturbed. You are an awful lot of trouble for a friend I've only recently met. Usually, the way of it is to cement a friendship before calling for monetary favours. And my pay is not so great that I can afford to treat you often," Octavia pointed out, although she wasn't really sure why she was doing it. This fashion of talk seemed pointless when directed at Scratch.
"Money's no good. Can't eat it, can't make good music with it, can't talk to it," Vinyl began, and stopped suddenly. In decidedly cautious tones, she added, "I'll pay you back."
Octavia raised an eyebrow, impressed. It was certainly a starting point, if not a full recompense for Vinyl's erratic habits. "Thank you."
"You hit four bum notes," Scratch carried on, changing the subject in the blink of an eye. "You were distracted. Explain."
Octavia groaned once more. "I saw your glasses glinting in the audience. And again when you made your way backstage."
"I distract you?" Scratch asked, and seemed to be wrestling with an internal dilemma. "...Should I stop coming?"
"That wasn't what I meant."
A moment passed; Vinyl seemed deep in though. Octavia took the time to wipe her mouth primly with a hankerchief.
"Come to my house tomorrow. I'll train you to not be distracted by me," Scratch said finally.
"No," Octavia said softly, and didn't know why. She just didn't feel ready yet.
"I see," Vinyl Scratch sighed, and it came out like smoke. "I see."