“Taught myself.”

“That’s how I started painting. Funny what we’re drawn to, isn’t it? What it fixes. I knew as soon as I started to paint it was mine. Did you feel like that with the guitar?”

I smile, because I did, but no one else has ever described that feeling to me. I think I knew even before I started—watching my dad play—that this music was something I needed. “Yeah. I did.”

“It’s so uncomfortable until you find the right way to get that part of yourself out, isn’t it?”

As soon as we finish our last spoonfuls of soup, a tall man with perfect posture and thick brown hair pulled in a stubby ponytail brings us two heaping plates of greens. “Ethan, how goes it?” he says, switching our bowls for the entrées. The sleeves of his faded denim shirt are rolled to the middle of his muscled forearms. “Greg said you were here.”

Ethan stands. They shake hands and lean into a hug with back slaps that sound hollow, like their bodies are just skin stretched over drum frames.

“Robert, this is April.”

“Nice to meet you, April.” He reaches for my hand.

I’m the only one sitting, so I bunch my napkin next to my plate and stand up. “Nice to meet you.”

Now we’re all standing and it’s awkward. The smell of food makes my stomach rumble, even though it looks like some sort of meat substitute on a bed of fancy lettuce. I imagine thick strips of rare roast beef oozing rosy juice all over the plate.

“Robert, join us,” Ethan says, sitting down.

I wonder why he’s Robert and not Rob or Bob. I think maybe they’re both gay, but Robert pushes my chair in for me, and our eyes lock. His are light green, and they can’t break away. He’s stuck.

I smile and watch his lips mimic mine. I look away. I’m not going to get caught up again. There’s no point.

Robert pulls a chair from another table and sits on it backward like a high school kid.

“This seitan looks delicious,” Ethan says, spearing a chunk of fake meat.

My first forkful of greens flops against my lips, spraying dressing across my cheeks. I wipe my face with the napkin and focus on trying to fold the leaves with my fork. This food is not going to fill the depths of my hunger. I should be busking or driving or calling around for gigs, not hanging out with strange men in exchange for free lawn clippings.

“April plays guitar.” Ethan gestures to my case. It’s wedged between my chair and the table so I can keep one foot touching it to make sure it’s still there.

“Are you my new talent scout?” Robert nudges Ethan’s arm with his knuckles.