“It sounded good tonight,” Matt called.
The figure loading gear into van froze. An over the shoulder glare. Foster hopped out of the back and hefted another speaker. “Yeah, I know.”
“Good crowd too.”
Foster set the speaker down roughly. “Look,” he said, “if you’re trying to rub it in, you’ve made your point.”
“I’m not,” Matt insisted, bending down to pick up the amp. “I mean it. It was a good show.”
“Give me that,” Foster grunted, sagging as he snatched the amp away. Matt backed off, arms raised. Foster almost rented, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “It is possible to play good music in a bar or at a house show.”
“I know that,” Matt said. “I know.”
Foster slammed the van doors and turned to face his former band-mate. “Just not good enough for you.”
Matt’s voice faltered. “I never said – I wasn’t trying to…” Foster just folded his arms and waited. “I miss it, you know?”
“Yeah,” Foster said. “Me too.”
Matt shrugged, nearly ready to give up. But he stayed. “I thought, maybe we could…”
The two young men stood in silence behind the bar, wounded, wary, waiting.
“Maybe we could play together sometime?”
* * *
Story by Gregory M. Fox
Gregory M. Fox 