Flyer Guy smiles at me and squeezes his paper tube. He looks through it like it’s a telescope and he wants to see his shoes better. We listen to the woman in the bathroom wash her hands. She coughs before she opens the door. She squeezes past us, giving me a forced smile.

“Go ahead,” Flyer Guy says, pointing the paper tube at the bathroom.

“You go,” I say. “My seat is safe. You’ve got competition for yours.”

He asks if I’m sure. I hold my ground. It’s awkward to stand there, trying not to listen to him go. I look at the black and white photos on the walls. Pretentious and purposely quirky. Nothing like Decadence. Pictures of fruit, dripping with dew and sexuality, posed on a rough wood table like they’re having conversations with cruel, comical vegetables. In one picture, I swear a pepper is telling a peach she has a fat ass.

I hear the toilet flush, but he doesn’t come out yet. I walk around in little circles and think about the riff for one of my songs. I’ve carried it with me in my head since Ithaca, unfinished. Something’s off about it. Missing words, missing notes. I haven’t figured out how to fix it yet. Someday.

Flyer Guy comes out as I’m mid-circle, thinking about the fingerpicking rhythm. I’m moving my fingers like they’re on the fret board. I must look a little nutty.

“Lost in thought?” he asks, grinning. Behind his glasses, he has these really nice brown eyes. They’re so alive.

“Thinking about a song,” I say, feeling my cheeks get hot.

“Like a skier who has to visualize the mountain before he gets off the lift?”

I laugh. “Something like that.”

“Good luck with your next set,” he says. “Break a leg.” I like his smile.

I walk in the bathroom and latch the door behind me. I don’t even have to go. I just need a moment to myself so I can catch my breath. I hold my wrists under the water and imagine my fingers turning into icicles, then I turn the water to warm. It’s procedure.

I’m almost done with the last song of my second set when Flyer Guy stands up. He weaves his way around the chairs and pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket when he reaches the door.

He doesn’t come back. I give the crowd a good scan while I’m signing CDs and think maybe I will spring for a motel tonight. Then there he is, in the doorway, smiling at me. I smile back.

He waits as the coffeehouse manager pays me in crumpled ones and fives. I wad up my money and shove it in the inside pocket of my bag.