The Duet

“You know, that sounds pretty fucking sweet.”

Octavia grinned, playing a few chords. “You know,” she remarked, “playing full chords, that picking pattern? Playing with your fingers?” She sighed in content, looking at Vinyl, who was tuning her violin. “Haven’t done that for a while, and I can say that sounds fucking swell.”

“Good,” Vinyl corrected automatically. “Not ‘well’. You don’t use an adverb after such verbs as-”

“Swell,” Octavia repeated. “Sheesh, Vinyl, no need to be so fancy all the time. Learn some slang, girl.” The woman leant back in the armchair, happy for the two beer bottles waiting for her on the little round table.

“When pigs fly,” the violinist muttered and almost sighed. No. Not on my watch. A classy little Vinyl in a tuxedo frowned inside her head and shook her baton. No sighing for classy ladies. “All right. I think we could try to play a simple waltz, just see if we feel the tempo and whether the instruments are in tune.”

Octavia gulped, trying to look aside nonchalantly. “Uhm. A waltz?”

“Yeah.” Vinyl nodded. “A simple waltz in A minor. We could even do the one-six-two-five.” She smiled. “You know, from the old jazz days?”

“Yeeeah.” Octavia gulped again, her eyes focused on the beer. “I. I’ve. I’ve never played a waltz before.”

“You what?” Vinyl turned sharply, blinking at the embarrassed woman.

“I’ve never played a waltz before, okay?” Octavia snapped, reaching for the beer. “It’s not a punk thing to do.” She opened the bottle against the table. The cap popped with a quiet hiss.

Vinyl was so surprised that she didn’t even remark on Octavia’s very not-allowed-in-her-household action. “You played jazz!” she reasoned with the punk rocker, who was grimly chugging her beer now.

“Yeah, so fucking what?” Octavia replied in a hurt tone. “You think I played all the difficult shit like five-eighths and seven-eighths and shit?” She chuckled grimly. “I just played the old four-four, just like in punk rock!” Suddenly, Vinyl saw something she had so rarely seen before: tears in Octavia’s eyes. “I’m not even a fucking pro!” The guitarist slammed her fist against the little round table. “I can only do four-four. That’s why I play punk rock, and not, and not, and not metal or whatever!”

Vinyl approached her friend carefully, considering whether to put her hand on her shoulder. “I thought you were punk because of anarchy. And chaos. And getting drunk.” A little punk Vinyl in her head huffed and motioned for her to proceed. “And making a statement.” Vinyl smiled encouragingly.

“Yeah…” Octavia sniffed and drank some more beer. “That too. But I cannot play hard stuff like the waltz or what-the-fuck-else.” The beer was dutifully downed.

“Octavia…” Vinyl smiled kindly, sitting on the sofa next to the upset woman. “It’s all right… Hey. Listen here.” She reached for Octavia with her other hand, slowly, gently turning Octavia’s head towards her. The punk rocked lowered her eyes, escaping eye contact. “Octavia, I don’t say this often, but… I think you are a good musician. You have your niche, but all of us do. No musician is proficient in every genre.” She pondered. “Well, maybe Steven Wilson.”

Octavia chuckled through tears. “Please don’t tell me you listen to that progressive crap they call prog rock.”

“Hey.” Vinyl shrugged. “I grew up on Manfred Mann and Pink Floyd, what do you expect? And,” she said reasonably, “a waltz is very easy. It’s three fourths. You just count one two three one two three one two three in your head, and you’ll never lose the rhythm.” She smiled and stroked Octavia’s cheek lightly. “Just like in dancing.”

Octavia slowly touched her cheek where Vinyl’s fingers had just been. “Vinyl,” she said seriously. “That’s hella gay, you know.”

“Oh, sorry.” Vinyl blushed slightly, touching the top button of her favourite blue waistcoat. “You know that I’m soft like that.”

“Yeah.” A chuckle escaped Octavia’s throat as she poked Vinyl’s belly. “You’re too chubby for a classical posh violin player.”

“Har har har.” Vinyl straightened herself with a huff. “Well. What I mean is, you gotta play the waltz the way you dance the waltz, simple as that.” She stood up, taking up the violin.

“I.” Octavia averted her eyes once again. “You know I can’t dance.”

“Yeah, about that…” Vinyl gave the rocker a tiny smile. “I could teach you how to dance, you know?” She plucked the strings in a firm pizzicato.

“Nah.” Octavia shook her head. “First, that’s gay; second, that sounds like a beginning of a porn film. First touching my cheek, then dancing, then tying me up in your basement and teaching me how to be a good girl.”

What the what. Vinyl merely shook her head, limiting her sighs. Sometimes she just had to deal with her overimaginative flatmate. “Okay, Octavia. Just play A minor. One two three one two three one two three-”

Octavia picked up the tempo and played the chord. A smile crept on her face. Vinyl stopped counting and picked up the violin, taking a few notes. One two three one two three one two- Wait. “Stop.”

Octavia stopped. Vinyl turned to her with her usual polite smile. “Octavia,” she said, “we have a little problem. That’s not quite my tempo.” She waved her hand in the air. “One two three one two three one two three. See? Let’s try again.”

Octavia nodded and placed her fingers on the strings. Vinyl put the bow to the strings. “One two three one two three-” she began counting.

Octavia began to play, and Vinyl took the notes again. Yes, the instruments were in perfect tune, nothing distorted, just the one two three one two three one two- Ugh!

“Stop!”

Octavia stopped, looking up at the violinist in surprise. “What’s the matter, Vinyl? My guitar’s not in tune?” She plucked the E string thoughtfully.

“No, it’s fine.” Vinyl rubbed her eyelids. “You’re just a little off the tempo. Listen to me counting and repeat that in your head: one two three one two three one two three-”

Octavia began to play. Vinyl stopped counting and picked up her bow. She waited. “Fuck!” she yelled, launching her bow at the guitarist. Octavia barely ducked, her eyes wide open in shock. “Octavia! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Vinyl growled, closing the distance.

“I…”

“Why can’t you fucking follow my bloody fucking tempo?” Vinyl shouted. She took a deep breath. “That’s why I never played with you. Because you can’t play for shit!”

“Well, I-” Octavia tried, but Vinyl snapped right in her face:

“You don’t get a say till you can follow the fucking tempo! One two three one two three one two three! One two three! One two three!”

“Well, I’m not a fucking drummer!” Octavia snapped back, resolving not to sit there and be humiliated. “If you haven’t noticed, it’s the fucking drummer who keeps the fucking tempo!”

“A real musician doesn’t need a drummer to keep the tempo!” Vinyl grinned, despite herself, the corners of her mouth taking the Catcher position by themselves. “But you wouldn’t know that! Because you’ve never been a real musician!”

“Oh yeah?” Octavia stood up, breathing heavily, her guitar brenking quietly on the floor. “Well, weren’t you the one who got fired because she couldn’t keep up the fucking tempo?”

“How-!” Vinyl gasped and, with a minute pause, slapped Octavia across the face. “How- How!”

Octavia grinned, rubbing her cheek. Vinyl huffed and ran out of the room. The door to the bedroom slammed shut. Octavia rubbed her cheek again. “Too soon?”

***

“Vinyl.”

Knock knock knock.

“Vinyl, let me in.”

Knock knock knock.

“Please.”

Vinyl sniffed and placed the cigarette in the ashtray. “Go away!” She lit another one using the previous one. Chain smoking, a little Vinyl in a doctor outfit that resided in her head pontificated, is bad for your health.

Knock knock knock.

“Vinyl, please. I’m sorry. I’m here to apologise.”

Vinyl sighed and stood up, puffing on her cigarette. She took a deep drag and opened the door. In the doorway stood a very humble Octavia - if Octavia could ever be described as humble. “May I come in?”

Vinyl took one more drag. “Since you asked so nicely.” She motioned for Octavia to sit. The punk rocker glanced around and sat on the bed.

“I’m sorry, Vinyl.” Octavia chewed on her bottom lip. “I wasn’t thinking. Hey, I know I shouldn’t’ve said that, right after you-” She rubbed her forehead. “I know I can be rough, but that’s just… who I am? If that makes it better, show me that Catcher guy and I’ll kick his dick in.”

Vinyl blinked. “How would that even- You know what.” She put the cigarette in the ‘tray. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to shout at you. I didn’t mean to slap you… Sorry.”

Octavia waved her hand in the air dismissively. “That’s all right. I’m a punk. I’ve been through a lot worse. But,” she pouted, “if you could kiss it to make it all better…”

“Uhm.” Vinyl sat down on the chair. “I thought you said you were against ‘hella gay’ gestures?”

“Well…” Octavia drawled, fluttering her eyelashes. “A girl can always reconsider…”

Vinyl finally sighed aloud. “You’re tipsy, aren’t you. You’ve drunk those beers.”

Octavia nodded. “And one more. Oh!” She took a tube from her back pocket. “I got you a cigar as an apology!”

Vinyl smiled. “That’s so sweet…” She reached for the present. “Wait.” She eyed the cigar closely. “How did you… That’s one of my cigars!”

“Yup.” Octavia beamed. “What did you expect? I don’t have any money. I found your secret stash.”

Vinyl’s eyes widened. “Y-you can’t mean that you…” she stammered in fear.

“Yup,” Octavia confirmed with a huge grin. “I found Sir Morning Glory the dildo.” Vinyl thought that it might be a good time for the earth to swallow her up. “You know, I find it kinda touching, that you’ve named your dildo. It’s sweet.”

Vinyl blushed as thickly as she could. “Y-you haven’t… um…” Oh gods how can I look into her eyes ever again.

“Of course I haven’t,” Octavia reassured her friend. “If I’d used it, it would’ve been indirect gay.”

“Good.” Vinyl nodded, her blush receding. “Good. That’s good to hear.”

“Why do you have a pack of condoms, though?” Octavia enquired, looking around for beer. There was none. “Isn’t it the guy’s responsibility?”

“Oh, Octavia, cut off this femi crap, please.” Vinyl sighed. All right. One more sigh, and I’m calling it a day. “If I don’t want to get pregnant, it’s my responsibility. All right.” She sighed and looked at the cigar. “I don’t exactly think the occasion befits a cigar.”

“You don’t use ‘befits’ like that.” Octavia frowned. “It should be followed by- ah hell, I don’t even know if the word exists.” She rubbed her nose. “All I’m saying is, I’m sorry. I wanna try again.” She paused. “With a metronome this time.”

“Sure,” Vinyl smiled a little. “Let’s go get some tea first and try again.”

***

“See? That’s so much better with a metronome.”

Vinyl sighed. Damn, not again. I should take some anti-sigh medicine or something. The little doctor Vinyl in her head rushed off to search for one. “Yeah. We managed to play a waltz and even change chords. Woohoo.” She almost sighed again. “But when we go on stage, there will be no metronome.”

“Who said that?” Octavia smirked, tapping her ear, for some reason unknown to the violinist. She picked up the tea cup. “Hmm,” the guitarist remarked, “it’s not beer, but it’s great. We should drink tea more often.”

“You don’t go on stage with a metronome,” Vinyl tried to explain, as if to a novice musician, disregarding Octavia’s gastronomical observation. “You don’t see orchestras performing with a metronome. Or bands.”

“Sure.” Octavia nodded, sipping on her tea that was getting barely warm. “But orchestras have a conductor, and bands have drummers. We’re a duet. So we have have a metronome playing in our earbuds while we perform.”

“I cannot agree with that,” Vinyl retorted politely, but still smiled. “Seems like you’re warming up to the idea of playing acoustic?”

“You know, it feels good,” Octavia remarked. “It’s like one of your chamber performances, you know? Like, the orchestra is neat but very prim and boring, and chamber gives off the feel of more, like, a band, I guess? I still don’t get why you quit your chamber ensemble.”

“To play in Catcher’s orchestra,” Vinyl replied wearily and stretched. “And look how that turned out.”  She put down the violin and the bow. “But those were the days.”

“We could relive them,” Octavia suggested, chugging on the tea as if it were beer. “I mean, we could go to one of those fancy chamber performances. Or we could go to an orchestra thingy and I could kick Catcher’s dick in.”

Vinyl tried to light a cigarette. The tiny breeze rolling through the window was preventing her from achieving this noble goal. “Octavia,” she said seriously. “Are you inviting me to a classical performance? No, wait.” She dragged on the cigarette as it came alive. “Let me put the stresses. Are you inviting me to a classical performance?”

Octavia shrugged. “Yeah, well, what’s the problem? I used to play jazz, you know.” The tea was depleting at an alarming rate.

“I swear you’re using this as a comeback for anything I say,” Vinyl mumbled, enjoying her smoke. “But you’re right. A chamber performance is just what I need.” The violinist smiled at her friend. “Will you pay for the tickets?”

Octavia laughed. “I have no money, remember? I spend it all on booze and hookers.”

Vinyl frowned. “For some reason, you never invite me when you’re having fun with hookers.” She extinguished the cigarette promptly. “You know I haven’t been close to a penis in forever.” She got up to get the window open.

“Well…” Octavia drawled, stretching and yawning. “It’s ‘cause they are female hookers. And you’re straight.”

“So are you!” exclaimed a very shocked Vinyl, letting in the chilly breeze. She stepped away from the window, cocking her eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you’re?..”

“It’s not gay when it’s with a hooker,” Octavia claimed. “Also, it’s not gay when it’s in a threeway.” She grinned widely. “Don’t you remember the golden rule? You just have to avoid eye contact. But if your eyes meet, you gotta high-five.”

“What.” Vinyl blinked, a new, unlit cigarette frozen between her fingers. “What the fuck, Octavia. What in the actual world of fuck.”

“Hey, don’t judge me.” Octavia pointed her finger at her friend. “Everyone has their faults. You chainsmoke, I have orgies with hookers.” The guitarist shrugged a little. “What’s wrong with that?”

Vinyl opened her mouth to argue, but, with a pause, closed it shut. She raised a finger, trying to make a point, but lowered it almost immediately. Finally, she decided on yet another sigh. “Octavia. Never change. Please.”

Octavia smiled. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

***

“Dude, pass me the chips,” Octavia asked, reaching out with her hand as she half-lay in the armchair, her legs on one of the arms, her vision upside-down as she turned towards Vinyl, who was sitting regally on the sofa.

Vinyl sighed and grabbed the packet, tossing it to the guitarist. “You did not just call me dude. And it’s ‘crisps’, by the way,” she remarked, relaxing a little as she leant back and returned her attention to the film: some Latin Amareican drama about university life.

“Oh no you don’t get to play this card.” Octavia straightened herself, pointing an accusing finger at the violinist. “You’re from Stalliongrad, not the Uneighted Kingdom.” The rocker opened up the chips with a loud pop. “Hey, you ever notice that our geographical locations sound very…” She paused, unsure what word to use. “Horse-like?” She elaborated, “Like ‘Stalliongrad’ and ‘Uneighted Kingdom’ and ‘Manehattan’?”

“Another one of your pet theories?” Vinyl laughed and lit up a cigar - a special treat for her tonight. She took a brief glance at the screen, where two girls were trying to make out with the same guy. The guy seemed gayer than mozzarella sticks with strawberry jam and latte and didn’t seem like he was enjoying the attention.

“You are a pet theory.” Octavia reached out and poked Vinyl’s belly. She laughed and ate some crisps with loud munching.

“That doesn’t even make any sense!” Vinyl tried hopelessly, then sighed and shook her head. This was Octavia, and, with Octavia, one had to learn to embrace the bizarre on a daily basis.

“You are chubby.” Octavia poked Vinyl’s belly again, this time with the violinist evading the finger successfully. “Wanna be my pet?” The punk rocker fluttered her eyelashes at her friend. “I’ll put you on a leash and stuff.” Octavia licked her lips contentedly. “You’ll like it, I know it.”

Vinyl sighed, knowing better than to be offended at one of Octavia’s remarks. “Octavia, go home, you’re drunk,” she said simply, taking the packet of crisps and taking a piece elegantly.

“I’m home. And I’m not drunk. I’m boooooored.” She got up suddenly, leaping at the violinist, making Vinyl shake in recoil.

“Octavia? What the-?”

The punk rocker licked her lips. “Can we pretend we’re drunk and make out?”

Suddenly, something in Vinyl’s throat prevented her from speaking out, and only a meek ‘eep’ escaped her lips. Suddenly, she found the room very hot, and the presence of the woman on top of her very hot, and was it hot in here? It definitely was. Suddenly, a swift, flashing image of Octavia on top of her, in the bedroom, flashed through her mind betrayingly, and left her eyes wide open.

Octavia leant closer, and closer… Then booped Vinyl’s nose and, with a laugh, got off the woman. “Just kidding, dude.”

Vinyl put on her best smile. After all, this was Octavia she was dealing with. Not someone else. Not someone she… liked. Just her flatmate. The nasty, beer-drinking, loud-music-on-putting punk rocker. Just… Octavia. Vinyl shook her head. “Of course.”

She cast a swift look at Octavia. The beautiful, awesome-hair, white-teeth, majestic musician. She shook her head again to get rid of such thoughts. “Of course…”