More Roche Five Than Pain

Danny stood on the university stage, pale as milk under the cold blue lights.
His red hair hung limp, his eyeliner smudged from the night before. The synth
wheezed beside him, blinking like it wanted to be somewhere else. He didn’t
know how to program it properly, but he liked the idea of it: clean, futuristic
and unfeeling.

Spud was pacing, jittery, his amp humming too loud. He’d played too fast at
the last gig, again. Danny hadn’t said anything. There was no one else.

Dean and Micky were on telly now, sneering through interviews, calling Danny
a “plastic ghost with a broken battery.” Their band The Garrison had
swagger and choruses you could shout in a pub. Danny had a synth that sounded
like a haunted fridge.

He didn’t care. Or tried not to.

Julie was at the entertainments desk, clipboard in hand, talking to a
technician. Her hair was long and golden, feathered but wild; like a blonde
Kate Bush. She wore a flowing paisley blouse tucked into a corduroy skirt,
calf-length boots and a silver pendant that caught the light when she moved.
Her makeup was soft but striking: smoky blue eyeshadow, glossed lips, a hint of
kohl.

She looked like she belonged in a dream. Danny’s throat tightened.

She saw him. Smiled. Walked over.

“You’re early,” she said.

“Trying to get the synth to behave,” he said. “It’s got ideas above its
station.”

She laughed. “Like you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You booked us?”

“I’m on the committee.”

“Out of sympathy?”

She paused. “Out of curiosity.”

He nodded. “Same thing.”

They sat on the edge of the stage, legs swinging.

Julie talked about lectures, poetry readings, a flat she shared with two
girls who drank herbal tea and listened to Joni Mitchell. Danny talked about
gigs, Spud’s amphetamine habit, the synth’s refusal to sound like anything
human.

“You’re ahead of your time,” she said.

“Or behind everyone else’s,” he said.

She looked at him. “You’re still chasing something.”

He looked at her. “You’re not.”

She smiled. “I caught it.”

He didn’t mean to lean in. It just happened. She didn’t move. Not at first. Then
she did: slowly, deliberately, her hand resting on his chest, her lips brushing
his like she was testing the temperature.

He kissed her back, uncertain, defensive, already regretting it.

She kissed him again; firmer, more certain. Then she pulled away.

“You’re still angry,” she said.

He nodded. “I don’t know how not to be.”

She touched his hand. “You don’t have to be.”

He looked at her. “You booked me because you felt sorry for me.”

She looked back. “I booked you because I remembered you could sing.”

He stood. “I don’t sing anymore.”

She stood too. “Maybe you should.”

The technician called her name. She walked away.

Danny looked at the synth. It blinked, waiting. He played one of the
presets. It wailed in a way he couldn’t.