Ethan sits at a table in the corner by himself and orders a bowl of soup and a glass of wine. The waitress and the busboy stop to watch me. There’s not much else for them to do. At the end of my songs they clap almost as loudly as Ethan does and it keeps the applause from sounding painfully thin.

Finally, another couple comes in. Mid-twenties. Awkward with each other, like it’s a first date. He keeps watching me instead of paying attention to what she’s saying. I want to stop and tell him that the poor girl got all dressed up to impress him and he better damn well pay attention to her.

I play I Can’t Make You Love Me by Bonnie Raitt and then Alone by Heart. The girl even turns around to clap when I’m done. Ethan stands and whistles.

Robert comes over to see me. “That was fantastic! Want to take a break and eat dinner?” His face is shiny. It must be hot in the kitchen. His t-shirt sticks to his back.

“I’m okay,” I say. “I’m not big on eating between sets.”

“Alright,” he says. “But let me get you some tea or something.”

Before I can say anything else, he goes into the kitchen and comes back with a tall glass of iced tea and a plate of toasted bread with some kind of tomatoey stuff on top. “Just in case you’re a little hungry,” he says as he hands it to me.

Robert goes back to the kitchen, and Ethan comes over to sit with me at the table closest to the makeshift stage.

“You’re amazing,” he says, putting his hand over mine and giving it a squeeze. “I’m so proud of you.”

It’s a weird thing to say. Pride for someone else always seemed to me like it had to come from seeing the journey. You knew how hard it was for them to get there and you felt invested in their success. But Ethan says it with assurance. Maybe it’s enough to understand that there’s been a journey. Maybe he’s tricked himself into actually believing we’re already in the middle of our friendship. I don’t think I mind. It’s nice to have someone rooting for me.

I eat two of the toast things. The tomato bits explode in my mouth, kind of like that gum that has a liquid center. Only this is a pure, clean taste that makes me remember the little tomato plants Margo always tried to grow on her fire escape in the summer. I could eat forever. But I stop so I don’t get that dull, thick feeling in my stomach when I try to play my next set.

Ethan eats the rest. He stays at the table nearest to me, clapping loud when I pick up my guitar again.