Late afternoon. I bike over to the used-book store, not far from the club. I exchange greetings with Mike, one of the owners, who's manning the register. He directs me to the back of the shop, where Kayla's working. I go there.

"Ready for your test?"

"I think so."

A brief kiss, then an early result.


I think I've passed. We continue... So we're kissing. I'm thinking maybe the nicotine fits are worth it. If the two of us could just stay right here for a couple of weeks, the smokes and the cravings are history. I'm thinking "yummy".

I'm thinking "passionate" - "passion" isn't a word that has crossed my mind of late. There's passion here, albeit a rusty passion on my part, tempered further by the insecurity of the new terrain, both emotional and physical. The landing party of the Enterprise on an uncharted planet. Is that an orgasmatron in the distance, or just a mirage? Am I wearing a red shirt? I've been told that I think too much. Then a message from the bridge...

"Kayla, can you take the register for a minute?"

It's Mike. I gotta go anyway. We walk to the front of the shop, and we say our goodbyes.

"I'll bring you a VHS of the show."

"No, thank you."

Having previously heard the band as three or four minutes of whatever, here and there, on the local college radio station, Kayla gave our EP a listen from her new I-know-the-bass-player POV. She remains unimpressed. Hell, so do I, and I'm the bass player! My tastes run toward Tchaikovsky these days.

I make a mental note to look for a CD of his third symphony as I walk the block-and-a-half to the club.

Tests will resume this weekend. Yummy!


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