Radio Show

"What are we doing here, Doc?" Scott asked.

"You mean, existentially?" James asked in return. He was far more interested in his playlist than his engineer's latest complaint. Scott Andersen was one of those people who was only happy when they're unhappy. He was also the best student engineer at WGBS and James knew he was lucky to have him. He recognized his younger, undergraduate self in Scott's fashionable cynicism and for the briefest moment felt a little sorry for both of them. 

"Exi-what-ally?" Scott said. "No, Doc. I mean this."

"Recording the latest episode of The Accordion to Me podcast, hosted by WGBS, the Great Bay State radio station that brings you all the B-sides from all the genres you never knew existed? Whether you like sitars or hammered dulcimers, you'll find it here at WGBS! Not to mention the highest rated accordion-themed podcast in New England. That this?"

"Yes, that this," Scott said. He shook his head. "Podcast? It's just a radio show, Doc," Scott said.

"Just a radio show?" James asked.

"Yes," Scott said. "Just a radio show. What are we doing here? Or more importantly, why are we doing this?"

"You do get three credits for your work here at the station, don't you?" James asked. "Isn't that reason enough?"

"You know what I'm saying," Scott said, with obvious exasperation.

It was their usual Saturday morning recording session in what they had dubbed the Nick Carraway Memorial Damp Basement Digital Studio as a joke that had only been funny to James, but had since become known simply as "The Carraway"; a small, converted classroom in the basement of Hawthorne Hall, next to what had been a custodian's closet and still smelled like it.

"Does art need a reason?" James said, trying on a smile he hoped would reassure Scott that life, the accordion, and three credits towards a bachelor's degree actually still mattered. He understood Scott's question and while he had his reasons, they were just that; his reasons. Would it satisfy anyone else? James doubted it but didn't care. Maybe there really wasn't what anyone would think of as a good explanation for Accordion to Me. 

"Art?" Scott said. "You think what we're doing here is art, Doc?"

James' smile grew just a little bigger. "Well, we're at least art-adjacent," he said. "Look, I think everyone should be weird about something in their lives, don't you?"

"So, you admit it's weird?" Scott asked.

"To the outside observer almost everything is weird, but, yes. Of course. Look at it this way. Maybe you're the kind of person who loves chickens and has chicken art and you make eggs-elent puns that never quite come home to roost. You remind everyone at every opportunity you get that we now know dinosaurs had feathers and that a T-Rex was just a 40-foot tall Foghorn Leghorn. You have chicken-themed throw pillows on your couch, and chicken-themed fitted sheets on your king size bed with chicken tchotchkes on the nightstand next to that king size bed. That's weird to the non-lovers of chickens," James said.

"That's weird to everyone," Scott said.

James considered the weirdness of everyone for a moment. "Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked.

"What?" Scott asked.

"Love at first sight," James said. "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"I did hear you right the first time," Scott said.

"Well?" James prompted.

"I don't know," Scott said. "I guess so. I mean, I'm still with Lisa and I still remember the first time I saw her in high school. So, yeah."

"You love her?" James asked.

"Sure. Yes, I love her," Scott.

"Why?" James asked.

Scott hesitated. "I, uh, I don't know. She's pretty?"

"It isn't a quiz, Scott." James smiled. "I'm just saying there's no rational explanation for the things or people that we love. We just love them."

Scott seemed to consider it. "Okay. But when you said 'chicken art' did you mean like paintings that feature chickens or art that's actually made by chickens?"

"I meant art that's actually made by chickens," James said.

Scott nodded. "Thought so."

"Here's the playlist," James said, handing it to him. 

Come With Me Now, KONGOS

Boy in the Bubble, Paul Simon

Unconditional, Arcade Fire

We Can Work It Out, Beatles

He'll Have to Go, Ry Cooder with Flaco Jimenez

When I Paint My Masterpiece, The Band

Road to Nowhere, Talking Heads

Looking it over, Scott said, "Don't you think you should end with Masterpiece?"

"I think Nowhere is about living life for its own sake. You know. Life is a journey, not a destination? A journey that's always better with accordion music, of course," James said.

Scott sighed dramatically. "You know there was a time when radio really meant something," he said.

"It still does," James said. "Now it means podcast."

"I'm serious, Doc." Scott said.

"You mean back in that time between cave paintings and HD4K Ultra smart TVs, when we sat around the faint glow of vacuum tubes as we listened intently to the life or death drama of orphans, rubes, vigilantes, and problematic racial stereotypes?" James asked.

"Orson Welles' War of the Worlds," Scott said as he scanned through the playlist.

"That's an unexpected reference for someone of your generation," James said.

"We covered it in my psych course. Mass hysteria," Scott said. 

"Cats and dogs living together?" James asked with a grin.

Scott smiled in recognition. "Thank you, Dr. Venkman. I'm just saying you're not going to make that happen with an accordion."

"I see. So, you'd rather I convince people we've been invaded by Martians, laying waste to human civilization in three-legged death machines, leading the heavily armed masses of Americans to commit panic killings of their own neighbors?" James said. "Isn't there enough of that on radio already?"

"I suppose you're right about that," Scott said. He scanned through the playlist again. "You know," he said, "I've never asked you, why the accordion? I mean, no offense, but you have to admit it's a, well, I guess I'd say it's the chicken art of popular music. I thought maybe your parents died when you were an infant and you grew up with your grandparents and they only watched Wheel of Fortune and repeats of old Lawrence Welk shows. Am I close?"

"No," James said, with what he hoped was an impish smile.

"Well," Scott said. "How did we get here? In case you missed it there, I said 'we' because I blame you for me being here when I could be in bed with Lisa."

Scott waited but James didn't answer. Why is he smiling like that, Scott wondered.

"It's just, you know, I think I deserve an explanation, you know, as your engineer," Scott said. When James didn't answer, he continued. "Okay, okay. Maybe you don't owe me anything but you should know I'm going to make it my life's work to find out."

James nodded, a bit amused at the prospect of becoming Scott's life's work. "All right," he said, and took a deep breath. "Like most great stories, this one is about a girl."

"Oh, please," Scott said.

"Sorry," James said. "The Sam Raimi/Tobey Maguire Spider-Man was on TV last night. So good, despite the lack of an accordion in the soundtrack." James smiled that smile again. "Like Spider-Man, like any other great story, my accordion origin story is about a girl."

"Okay," Scott said. "Spill. Details."

"First girl I had a crush on in high school," James said. "Judy Wilson. We were both in band. I played trumpet and she played trombone. I'd suggest we get together at her house to practice after school and sometimes we'd practice and sometimes we'd just… make out. You know. Under the blouse, over the jeans stuff. Anyway, she had an accordion. She was actually pretty good. She had some records, too. Stuff I'd never heard or even heard of. First time I ever listened to Ry Cooder and Flaco Jimenez." He shrugged. "To tell the truth, I always thought the trombone was a weirder choice for her."

"She had big tits, didn't she?" Scott asked.

James smiled wistfully. "Yes. Yes she did."

"The 'under the blouse' reference was a dead giveaway," Scott said. "Not to mention that faraway look in your eyes when you were talking about it. And to think I thought you were gay."

"You think everyone is gay," James said.

"Not that there's anything wrong with it," Scott.

"Are you hitting on me?" James said. "Because you are so not my type."

"It's because I don't play the accordion, isn't it?" Scott said. He noticed the change in James' demeanor. "Now what are you thinking about?"

*****

James Stillman had a day job; tenured professor of English Literature at Great Bay State, with his Ph.D in the American Novel of the 20th Century. During his time at GBS, he had curated a small circle of friends. Circle may have been stretching the metaphor. Could three people make a circle? He wasn't the most gregarious of social creatures, to be sure, but treated the few bonds of friendship he maintained with care. He enjoyed cooking and hosted his friends for dinner in his apartment every week or two and this was one of those weeks. 

He welcomed Chris and Debbie McLaughlin, also members of the Great Bay State faculty, and Amanda Reagan, a friend of Deb's from her undergraduate days at Orono, to dinner that Tuesday evening. Chris was a chemical engineering instructor who looked disconcertingly like a taller, softer, not blonde Kevin Costner, and his wife Debbie, an associate professor in the Life Sciences department, was for all intents and purposes a lifesize, blue-eyed, blonde, but long-waisted Barbie come to life. James often thought of them as his “Hollywood friends,” a seeming anomaly in this small college town as James had held onto a childhood theory that anyone who was good looking moved to California to be in the movies. The plain and the less symmetrical folk like himself became college professors at small New England colleges. Deb had called the day before about bringing Amanda and told James that if he didn't feel comfortable with a guest they could always get together another time. She insisted it wasn't a fix up, which only made James suspicious that's exactly what it was. Friends were definitely a double-edged sword. But the eggplant was fresh and he was in the mood to cook so he said yes.

He had made eggplant parmesan and it had been one of his better efforts so at least there was that, though he remembered Amanda deconstructing it in a way that left him feeling just a little bit defensive. Not that he remembered the details of the evening.  He'd had a glass or two (or three) too many of the Sangiovese, which he'd attributed to nerves. He wasn't exactly sure what had made him feel so anxious but he had an uncomfortable suspicion.

The Sangiovese had brought the receipts Wednesday morning with a hangover that had James wondering if he actually remembered anything of Tuesday night. He only hoped that he hadn't made an utter fool of himself. Chris could be a bit of a jerk - the downside of him thinking that he was funny - and James was not looking forward to being roasted by his best friend for things he couldn't remember. 

As the morning wore on and his memory returned he would find his feelings turning from regret to sadness.

James looked forward to the easy fellowship of his dinners with Chris and Deb as a break from the humdrum details of his day-to-day life and blamed his apprehensive state of mind Wednesday morning and the objective correlative of his hangover on the uncomfortable dinner the night before, even if he was in denial about what was really bothering him. Besides the wine. He knew better. He wished at times like these he could just stop his brain like it was a car engine. He thought too much about everything. 

Life would go on, as it always does, he thought, but it wasn't reassuring enough that morning to modulate the howling of his dissonant thoughts. Aspirin wasn't helping, either.

"Hey!"

James looked up from The World According to Garp to see Chris standing in his open doorway.

"Hi, Chris," James said.

"Office lights out. And you're wearing your glasses instead of contacts. Hung over?" Chris asked with a wicked smile.

"Yes," James said. "And please. Speak a little more softly."

"You earned it. I don't think we've ever gotten to a third bottle of wine at dinner before. Maybe we should hit the Bagel Hole for some coffee and a big, greasy breakfast?" Chris said.

Lying, in hopes of avoiding any further conversation with Chris while Hell's marching band was playing the 1812 Overture inside his skull, James said, "Three cups already. Probably shouldn't. I wouldn't want the Bagel Hole to lose their caffeine license for over-serving. And I'm way behind on getting ready for Garp. Which is only that much more difficult given the current state of my mental health." He sighed a little too obviously and gestured theatrically at the open book in front of him.

"Okay," Chris said. He smiled, turned to leave, but stopped. "Look, I was just wondering, um, do you think Deb's friend Amanda is pretty?"

It seemed to explode in his brain. James' mumbled inner monologue was shouting at him. He felt awash in light and remembered the previous night with a brutal clarity.

James sighed. Fate had shot an arrow through his heart. Maybe I shouldn't be a secret to my friends, he thought. "Yes. She's beautiful. I suppose the 21st Century man is supposed to look beyond the mischievous green eyes, the shimmering auburn hair, the perfect skin, and the swimsuit model's body to see the true beauty that lies beneath but perhaps I was simply blinded by the angelic aura that seemed to emanate from her very soul and enveloped her with a soft, golden light."

"Seriously?" Chris said. "You couldn't just say you liked her?"

"I'm a professor of English literature. I'm going to just say I liked her?" James shrugged. "I'm not sure it matters," he said. "Didn't Deb say she was just visiting?"

Chris cleared his throat. "The thing is, um, I guess Deb forgot to mention Amanda is applying for an opening in Computer Science," Chris said. "I guess the interview is basically a formality. She's like genius-level smart and they currently don't have any women on faculty in the department, so..."

"Okay," James said. "I see. It was a fix up."

Chris smiled. "You liked her, didn't you? I mean, I don't remember everything you said but it sounded like you like liked her."

"She didn't like me," James said, and realized that it hurt. A lot more than her not liking his eggplant parmesan.

"What do you mean?" Chris said. "I thought you two really hit it off."

"Hit it off?" James said.

"It was like Deb and I weren't even there," Chris said. "We couldn't seem to get a word into the conversation."

"Conversation?" James realized that in his memory it felt more like an argument than a conversation.

"You didn't find her interesting?" Chris asked. "You know, on top of being beautiful?"

"That was some of the best eggplant parmesan I've ever made," James said, recovering some of his conversation with Amanda.

"It was fantastic," Chris said. "You really outdid yourself but what does that have to do -"

"She hated it," James said. 

Chris laughed. "She did, didn't she?" He paused. "So what if she didn't like your eggplant. She liked you."

"I don't think she does," James said and sighed. 

"But you do like her," Chris said.

"Look, I'm sorry, Chris," James said, "but I really, absolutely have to get back to work."

"Really, absolutely?" Chris said. "Don't you teach Garp every year in your 404 course?"

"Okay," James said. "Fine. Yes. I could teach Garp in my sleep. I just don't want to talk… I'm in real pain here, Chris, and I've already taken what might mercifully be a lethal dose of aspirin… So please… Can you just tell me what's going on here?"

"All right," Chris said. "It was a fix up. Deb and I tried to fix you up with Amanda because we care about you and well, we just don't want to see you spend your whole life alone and unhappy."

"You're making me unhappy right now," James said. “Wait. Unhappy? What makes you think I’m unhappy?”

“Because you’re so happy all the time,” Chris said. “Nobody is that happy. Not really. Not all the time. You’re obviously faking it. You’re fake happy.”

It was true that James thought of happiness as a choice. Or rather, he didn't like feeling sad, even as he recognized it as an inevitability in life. You can feel sorry for yourself, you can even hate yourself, or you can count your blessings and be happy with who you are and what you have. Books. Friends. Food. He liked to cook and was pretty good at it. Music. The Accordion to Me podcast. Was his studious equanimity true happiness? It was close enough. Or so James told himself. Fake it till you make it. Perhaps he was only fooling himself; his life was as much of a con as Jay Gatsby's. Fake happy. Was there a difference? A distinction looking for a difference? James had decided to be happy and mostly he was. It wasn't always as easily done as said, of course. Other people were at times a complication; like Amanda at dinner last night or Chris at this moment. James took a deep breath. "Look, it's not that big a deal. One bad dinner. The universe shrugs." And then James shrugged, too.

"Well," Chris said. "Maybe you don't really know somebody you've only just met for one bad dinner."

James hesitated. Chris wasn't often right and James hated it when he was. "Get out," James said.

"What am I supposed to tell Deb?" Chris asked.

James noticed that Hell's marching band had stopped playing. His eyes didn't hurt. He took a deep breath. He had tripped and fallen on the road to Damascus and found religion. Over the course of the morning it had become uncomfortably clear to him why he'd had one or two (or three) too many glasses of Sangiovese and why he'd felt off balance all morning. "Tell her I fell in love with Amanda the first moment I saw her," he said. 

"Don't tell me - What? You mean the 'love at first sight' thing?" He laughed. He had mocked James' romanticism on more than one occasion in the past and the fact that Deb thought it was endearing only seemed to make Chris feel even more sorry for James and his silly notion that falling in love was a moment, and not an arcane ritual involving dinners, movies, breakups and makeups and meeting the parents at Thanksgiving. "Wait. You're serious. This is serious. Are you serious?"

"Yes," James said.

"Seriously?" Chris asked.

"Smitten," James said. "Truly, madly, deeply."

"Seriously?" Chris asked.

"Again," James said. "Yes."

"Oh," Chris said, the excitement in his voice replaced with concern.

"What?" James said.

"You know when I said it wasn't a fix up?" Chris said.

"But then you said it was," James said.

"Yes," Chris said, "but for Amanda, not you."

"Doesn't a fix up usually involve two people?" James asked.

Chris took a breath. "Amanda just ended a bad relationship. Really bad. Toxic. Abusive. The divorce was just finalized and Deb was - is - worried about her and well, she thought it would be good for Amanda to, um, how do I put this?"

"Get laid?" James asked.

Chris touched the tip of his nose with his right index finger.

"Why me?" James asked. "I mean, why not get her a grad student? Or an undergrad with relatively good hygiene?" James noted the pained look that passed quickly across his friend's face. "Sorry. I wasn't taking a shot. And I can see why you wouldn't want to go there. Given the, um, history involved."

"I was trying to do you a favor! You're 33, single, and haven't had a girlfriend that lasted more than two weeks in the three years that I've known you," Chris said. "And it's been at least six months since you broke up with Margie."

"Margaret," James said. "And you know she broke up with me because you wouldn't stop calling her Margie."

"No she didn't," Chris said.

"No," James said. "She didn't."

"Look," Chris said. "This would be good for both of you. Amanda could use a little tenderness and you could use a little sex."

"You really should write songs, you know?" James said.

"Call her," Chris said.

"She doesn't like me," James said. He felt tears welling in his eyes.

"She didn't like your eggplant. It doesn't mean she doesn't like you," Chris said. "Call her."

James already felt rejected by Amanda. He didn't want to feel that again, even as his heart was begging him to accept the risk. He was stuck in his brain, which had turned to quicksand. He took a deep breath and let it out. "I'd really like to stay friends with you, Chris," he said. "I'd really miss racquetball. And you would really, really miss my chicken marsala."

"You're seriously playing the chicken marsala card with me?" Chris said.

"I am," James said.

"Right," Chris said. "I'll let you get back to work."

*****

On a small college campus, it's impossible not to run into someone; specifically, that someone you were trying to avoid in the first place. Faculty meetings, though always about very little of substance, often had too much made of what little there was. Hurt feelings and recriminations were endemic to any small group of human beings and the English department of Great Bay State was no different. As a man of little ambition, it was easy for James to be the peacemaker when voices grew strained, cheeks flushed red, and vocabularies regressed to the vernacular.

James may not have had that many friends but he had no enemies. He had a smile and a welcome greeting for everyone he met on the campus greens or in the faculty dining hall, and everyone had a smile and a "good to see you" acknowledgement for him. These encounters rarely led to an actual conversation about anything more than the weather or the movies and James liked it that way. He was that guy everyone thought they knew, though few knew more than a little about him. 

It was inevitable, then, that James would run into Amanda whether he wanted to or not. He'd walked down to Moby's Diner to pick up his usual Thursday lunch, and saw her sitting with Great Bay State's entire Computer Science department. They'd pushed two tables together for the four of them. Reflexively, as he did with everyone he knew when he saw them on or around campus, he had smiled and waved, then nearly tripped and felt his face flush in embarrassment as he made his way like a drunken mime to an empty seat at the counter. He was  a regular at Moby's and his usual Thursday was a turkey club on toasted marble rye with extra mayo and a bag of chips to go. He let the waitress behind the counter - Alice, one of the waitresses at Moby's who had seemingly adopted him - know he'd arrived.

"Hello."

James turned and saw Amanda.

"Hello," he said and smiled. He had tripped and fallen in love. He felt nervous and unsure, he felt like he hadn't felt since fumbling with Judy Wilson' bra. He hadn't felt like this with Margaret, or any of the other women he'd dated since then. He sighed almost imperceptibly, wondering if he could live a life without eggplant parmesan.

"I wanted to thank you again for dinner last Tuesday," she said. "And I'd like to introduce you to a fan."

"A fan?" James asked.

She nodded towards the table and said, "Professor Martinez was quite excited to learn that I know you. Apparently, he's a big fan of your podcast. I'm surprised you didn't mention it at dinner. Accordion music? Isn't that an oxymoron?"

James took a breath and gathered himself. He'd felt sad that this woman didn't like his cooking, and he felt a twinge of that hurt and disappointment again at her casual joke about accordion music. Love is cruel, he thought.

Amanda noted the look of distress on James' face. "I was just kidding," she said. "Would you care to join us for lunch? Professor Martinez would love to meet you."

Martinez… Juan? James thought. It has to be! He had less than a dozen subscribers and knew all their names. He looked over at the beaming face of Professor Martinez and smiled back. He raised his hand and waved and the man waved back as James was thinking this must be the man with the handle @ByteTheBigJuan. 

"I ordered a sandwich to go," James said.

"So," Amanda said, "just come over and say hi, then."

"Yes. Sure," James said, standing. "Of course."

As they approached the table, Professor Martinez stood to meet them. He was about James' height, a little heavier. He had a broad, pleasant face, and long, jet black hair pulled back in a ponytail. 

"Dr. Stillman," Amanda said, introducing James to the table. Nodding at the two men who remained seated, who were obviously not accordion aficionados, she introduced the table. "This is Professor Jude, Professor Downey." She paused. "And this is Professor Martinez."

Martinez stuck out his hand. James took it and immediately feared he might never get his hand back. "Big, big fan, Dr. Stillman. Love, love, love your podcast." He continued shaking James' hand. "But," he said, as his smile grew impossibly bigger, "you really need more Flaco."

"There can never be too much Flaco," James said, attempting to return the man's smile as the pain in his right hand turned to numbness. "And call me James, please."

"Miguel," Martinez said, finally releasing James' hand. 

"Miguel?" James asked.

"That's right," Professor Martinez said.

"Are you a subscriber?" James asked. The man's smile could not possibly get bigger, could it?

"I am," Professor Martinez said with noticeable pride, dropping his voice to add, "I'm ByteTheBigJuan."

James nodded, the puzzled look still on his face, and Martinez leaned in as if sharing a secret. "Juan is my middle name and I couldn't come up with a tech-related pun for Miguel."

"Right. Of course," James said and smiled.

"Would you like to join us for lunch?" Miguel asked.

"I'm sorry, I've got a sandwich to go and I really need to get back to work," James said.

"Still working on that lesson plan for Garp's World?" Amanda asked, with a tiny, Mona Lisa smile.

"It's -" James started to correct her and stopped. I talked to Chris, Chris talked to Deb, Deb talked to Amanda… Somehow, I'm still in 7th grade, James thought. He felt exposed and vulnerable and his heart raced like a teenager's car at a red light. What else had I told Chris that Chris told Deb that Deb told Amanda? He struggled to ignore his amygdala as it hissed at him to take flight. He couldn't tell if Amanda was being purposely perverse in mangling the title to The World According to Garp, but decided to let his limbic system put up a little bit of a fight. "Yes," he said. "That's right. Garp's World."

"Another time, then?" Professor Martinez said, his smile making James wish he had sunglasses. "And play some Flaco on your next podcast, por favor."

James hesitated. "Professor Martinez - Miguel - would you like to put together a Flaco Jimenez playlist for the podcast?"

"Are you serious?" Miguel asked, as he finally released James' hand, his expansive smile replaced by an open-mouthed look of wonder and amazement. "I would love to do that!"

"Would you mind coming on the show to talk about the music?" James asked. He couldn't tell if Miguel was about to pass out or hug him.

Miguel's mouth worked silently for a moment before he finally blurted, "Yes! I mean, no, I mean, of course I wouldn't mind, not at all. Not at all. I'd be happy to. Yes, please."

"Just send me your playlist in email and we'll work out the details from there, all right? I usually record on Saturday mornings -"

Alice came over to the table and touched James on the arm and said, "Sorry to interrupt. Your sandwich is waiting for you at the register, sugar," she said.

"Thanks, Alice," James said. 

"See you next Thursday," she said as she turned and left for the kitchen.

"Sugar?" Amanda asked.

"Alice is originally from Tennessee," James said. "They like sugar in their tea and I always order iced tea without sugar. So, it became a thing with Alice making a joke about it. And I think we may have been lovers in a previous life. When I was Marc Antony and she was Cleopatra."

"I see," Amanda said, either not getting James' joke or just not finding it to be funny.

James smiled. He felt like the moment was slipping away from him. "Well, nice meeting you all. Nice to see you again, Amanda, and I look forward to seeing your playlist, Miguel."

There was a murmuring of "nice to meet you, too's" but before he could leave, Amanda said, "I did have one more thing I wanted to talk to you about."

"Oh?" James said, his heart racing at the anticipation of a green light. "Well, look, if it's about last Tuesday night, that was really all my fault."

The three men at the table were suddenly silent and rapt in attention.

"I don't think it was all your fault," Amanda said. "Maybe we could get together later. You know, when you're done with your lesson plan for Garp's World and everything." She smiled.

She is doing it on purpose, James thought. "We, um, well, yes, sure, uh, I do have office hours from two to five this afternoon."

"I was thinking dinner but okay," Amanda said. "Shall I make an appointment?"

"What? Oh! Dinner? I mean, sure, you know, I didn't mean…" He took a deep breath. Amanda seemed amused by his inability to form a complete sentence. The men at the table might as well have been eating popcorn. "I'm sorry. I just meant you can stop by anytime after two."

"Maybe closer to five if we're thinking about dinner?" she said.

"Sure," James said. Dinner? Was I wrong about Tuesday night? Do I actually remember Tuesday night? "Of course. That would be great."

"See you later, then," Amanda said.

After James left, Miguel turned to Amanda and said with a knowing smile, "You've enchanted him."

"No, I didn't," Amanda said.

Miguel shrugged. "Someone did."

*****

"So, yeah," she said, "about last Tuesday night."

She sat in the chair across from his desk, self-assured and comfortable, as if this was her office and not his. He let himself consider just how beautiful Amanda was, perhaps the most beautiful woman he'd ever met in person. Is she objectively beautiful, he wondered, or just beautiful to me? He thought of himself as the quintessentially average man. He was more often mistaken for other people than recognized as himself, particularly when he opted for contacts over glasses, and couldn't help wondering who Amanda saw when she looked at him. 

"I really just wanted to say I'm sorry," Amanda said. "I guess I was anxious about the interview, seeing Deb again brought up some old memories and not just the good times, so I was feeling a little raw, and I kind of babble when I'm nervous, plus, I've been accused of being aggressively opinionated and I know some men don't like that."

James smiled.

"Is that funny?" Amanda asked.

"No," James said, trying not to smile and realizing he could not stop.

"Why are you smiling?" Amanda asked.

"It's nothing," James said, still overwhelmed by his feelings for her.

"It's definitely something," Amanda said.

James hesitated. "Some men."

"Some men?" Amanda asked.

"You said you think some men don't like you," James said. "Do you think I'm 'some men'?"

Amanda appeared to take the question seriously. "I don't know yet," she said with an even tone.

James smiled back. He really couldn't think of anything else to do.

"Anyway," Amanda said. "Deb said I should reach out to you. Apparently, you're butt-hurt over some things I said about your eggplant parmesan."

"Butt-hurt?" James asked. "Are you quoting Deb or translating Deb?"

"Quoting Deb," Amanda said. "Butt. Hurt."

"It doesn't sound like the Deb I know," James said.

"Maybe you don't know Deb as well as you think you do," Amanda said.

"Maybe not. You don't like Italian food, do you?" James asked. "Or was it just my eggplant?"

"I'm more of a burger and beer kind of gal," Amanda said.

James nodded. "Okay, yes. I was butt-hurt." He smiled. "Despite hating my eggplant, Chris told me that you liked me. Is that true?"

"No," she said. She saw the look of surprise on James' face but took it for disappointment and couldn't stop the smirk from tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Sorry if that hurts your feelings, too."

James smiled what he hoped was a brave smile. "I don't think you are." Somehow being right about the fact that she didn't like him only made it hurt more.

"You don't think I'm what?" Amanda asked.

"I don't think you're sorry you hurt my feelings," James said. The realization brought a moment of pause. Have I fallen in love with a monster? "Who told you that you were 'aggressively opinionated'?"

"What?" Amanda asked.

"It's an oddly specific phrase," James said, "I have to think you were quoting someone. Deb again?"

She paused, giving James a hard look. "My ex."

"Oh," James said. "Sorry."

"I'm not," Amanda said, defiant.

"Angry?" James asked, though the answer was pretty obvious.

"Yes," Amanda said. 

"You knew Tuesday night was a fix up?" James asked.

"Yes," Amanda said. "I told Deb I'd be happy just to hang at their place while the three of you had dinner, but she said I shouldn't be alone, she'd worry about me, I needed to get on with my life, and blah, blah, blah. I mean, the marriage was a disaster and the divorce was commensurately ugly but it's not like I want to kill myself."

"Just everyone else?" James suggested.

She hesitated, then smiled. "Yes. Anyway, it was all the usual and customary things friends tell you after a breakup. A divorce. You need to get back out there. You need to get on with your life. There's someone out there… She told me you would be good for me. Truth be told, she sounded like she had a crush on you herself. She wouldn't let it go so I said okay." She paused. "Deb told me that Chris told her that you said you think I'm beautiful," she said.

He looked directly into her sea green eyes and felt like he was falling, diving into them and might never reach the end. "I would think that's hardly a controversial opinion."

"That's a yes?" Amanda demanded. 

"Yes," James said. "I think you're beautiful."

"Deb also told me you think you're in love with me," Amanda said.

"I am in love with you," James said.

She chuckled as if she was about to make a joke. "You just want to fuck me," Amanda said. She couldn't read the look on his face but it was definitely not the reaction she was looking for.

"You're not much for poetry, are you?" James said.

"Do you want to fuck me or do you want poetry?" she asked, her voice tightening.

"I want both," he said and somehow knew that it was too much to ask. He felt confused and a little angry. When she had suggested dinner he'd let himself think maybe, just maybe it was his heart that was right instead of his head.

Amanda hesitated. She wasn't sure what she wanted to happen next but felt fatalistic about what always seemed to happen next. "I know what men want. You'll settle," she said. "Men always settle."

"Some men," James said. 

"You don't even know me," Amanda said.

"Well," James said. "I know you were a pretty good athlete in college. You're built for volleyball but you really loved softball. I know you got a perfect score on your SATs. I know you like Michael Buble and Billie Eilish. I know you like the films of Katherine Bigelow. I know you still miss your childhood dog, Mister Mister, a border collie mix and you hope to find a small house with a yard so you can get a dog, even though that dog could never, ever replace Mister Mister."

"Debbie told you all of that?" Amanda asked.

"You did," James said. "Tuesday night. When you weren't taking shots at my eggplant parmesan."

"I can't believe I told you about Mister Mister," she said.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" he asked.

"No," she said. "Definitely not. I'm not even sure I believe that love actually exists, let alone love at first sight. Maybe there's no such thing as love. It's just a biological, reproductive imperative masquerading as emotion, a rationalization of reproductive urges, something else science just hasn't figured out, yet. A deceptively simple, yet sometimes deadly chemical reaction."

James nodded. She had good reason to be cynical about love. He hadn't the heart to remind her of the things she'd said about her ex at dinner. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her. Maybe he was feeling sorry for himself.

She stood up then. "I think love can just go fuck itself."

"So," James said, standing, too. "Dinner? The Tin Palace has a decent burger and…"

He saw the tears welling up her eyes. "You can go fuck yourself, too."

She turned to leave.

"Amanda, wait!" James said. When she turned back to him he felt his heart break, split open like an oak struck by lightning right down to its roots. He felt like this was the end and maybe it was better for both of them but he was struggling to let love go. "Take care of yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Amanda asked.

"It's what people say," James said, "when they don't want to say goodbye to someone they love."

She nodded. "Goodbye," she said, and left.

What just happened? He sat quietly with his disappointment and confusion for a moment, fighting in vain against the obvious truth. He and Amanda would not be having a happily ever after. He didn't know how he could feel so sad about losing something he never really had, but he did.

*****

He ran into Amanda a few times over the days that followed. She acted as if she didn’t know him until the Thursday he saw her in Moby’s having lunch with a young man with some impressive ink on his arms, silver stud earrings and a nose ring, with carefully disheveled hair. She smiled and waved. He smiled and waved back, wondering if Chris had taken his advice and gotten Amanda a grad student, after all. It hurt but less so than he’d thought it would. Perhaps comedy is tragedy plus time, he thought.

*****

From: Martinez, Miguel

To: Stillman, James

Subject: Flaco Playlist

James,

Hope this finds you well. See playlist, below. Looking forward to Saturday!

En Vivo

La Bamba w/Ry Cooder

Carmelita w/Dwight Yoakam

All You Ever Do Is Bring Me Down w/Mavericks

Ay Te Dejo en San Diego

El Pantalon

Volver, Volver w/Ry Cooder

Best,

-ByteTheBigJuan

*****

James was reviewing Miguel's playlist with Scott when they heard the knock on the door to The Carraway.

"Five minutes early," Scott said, checking his phone. "I like him already."

"He's quite enthusiastic about this so please try not to be your usual, sarcastic self, alright?" James said as he opened the door to greet Miguel and was momentarily surprised to see that he'd brought someone with him; a petite brunette, dark and exotic, dressed in black and red.

"Miguel!" James said. "Welcome! Hello! And this must be your beautiful wife. Very happy to meet you. I'm surprised Miguel hasn't mentioned you -"

Miguel laughed. "This must be my beautiful sister, James."

"Oh," James said. "My apologies. I shouldn't have assumed."

"Antonia, this is James; James, Antonia," Miguel said.

"It's very nice to meet you," James said, shaking her hand, and was caught for just a moment by a spark of light in her large, brown eyes that he couldn't help thinking promised mischief.

"Nice to meet you, James," Antonia said with a smile nearly as bright as her brother's. "The way Miguel talked about you, I wasn't sure you actually existed."

"I hope you aren't too disappointed," James said. "Will you be joining us on the podcast?"

"Oh, no," Antonia said. "I hope it's alright if I just sit in." She smiled a smile that seemed to redouble the promise of mischief. "I'll be quiet."

"Not a problem," James said. "Oh, and this is Scott Andersen, my engineer."

"Hello," Scott said, nodding at Miguel and Antonia.

"Chris will get you a head set," James said, then added with an expansive gesture at the glass-walled closet. "You can sit with Scott in our state of the art recording booth."

"The Carraway?" Antonia asked. 

"Excuse me?" James said. 

"The sign on the door," Antonia said. "Seems like every building and room on this campus is named for somebody who fought in the Revolutionary War but I'm not familiar with anybody named Carraway."

"It's a character from Great Gatsby," James said.

"Ah," Antonia said. "Yes, Miguel told me you were an English Lit professor."

"It's a funny story," James began.

"No it isn't, Doc," Scott said, as he handed a headset to Antonia.

"Thanks," she said. She turned back to James and smiled. "You can tell me the story later."

Antonia joined Scott in the engineer's booth as James and Miguel set up in the recording studio; both spaces weren't much more than closets, with small tables and folding chairs. After a few minutes getting the recording software in order, Scott gave James and Miguel an okay sign with his hand, then held up three fingers and counted down, pointing to James after one.

"Miguel Martinez," James said. "Welcome to Accordion to Me."

"Thank you, James," Miguel said, adjusting his headset nervously. James noted Scott rolling his eyes. "I'm very happy to be here."

"And I want to thank you for joining the show today and bringing a playlist of Flaco Jimenez music for all of us to hear and enjoy. What do you say we jump right in?"

"Sounds good," Miguel said as James pointed to Scott in the booth.

After the first track played, James said, "That was En Vivo, a great choice to kick us off, Miguel. Would you mind telling us why you love Flaco's music so much?" James asked.

"I don't know if I can," Miguel said, "but I'll try. I think there's a sense of joy and yearning in his music, a sincerity, it's heartfelt in its happiness and in its sadness. It sounds like he knows how I feel." He hesitated. "It always makes me feel good. Or better, when I'm not feeling so good. I don't know if that makes sense."

"Well, the things we love don't have to make sense, do they?" James said. 

"No," Miguel said. He smiled. "You know," he continued, "I've been a long-time listener to the show and I don't think you've ever talked about why you do this show. I like to think it has something to do with a woman."

Scott stifled a laugh but it was impossible for it to pass unnoticed. Miguel smiled broadly. James gave Scott a dark look and Scott returned a smile as bright as Miguel's.

"Well," James said, "I guess we can start with the obvious. I love accordion music, and - " he looked directly at Scott in the booth " - yes, the story of my love affair with the accordion begins with a girl." He hesitated. "But I think as I've gotten older I've come to think… maybe think isn't the right word because it's really something I feel… that we're all just a love song on the radio. Other people can't see us, not really, and maybe they don't even understand all the words we're singing. Maybe the signal isn't strong. There's static. The listener has to imagine who we really are, what we really mean. They have to paint the masterpiece we hope to become. And maybe it's a longshot but I have to hope there's someone out there, who will hear all of my words, and all the notes in my melody and that not only does that special person hear it, but more importantly, they believe it and want to hear that song forever. They want to sing along with you. They want to sing the harmony, the third, the fifth. Sometimes, as you said, we can't even put it into words, we have to hope the melody will carry us to that happily ever after, even if it's only for two minutes and fifty-nine seconds." He paused. "Of course, not everyone is going to like your song no matter how passionately you sing it. But risking a broken heart, as much as that hurts and as difficult as the rehab is, it's worth it, I think."

"I couldn't agree more," Miguel said.

"Let's get to our next song, shall we?" James said. Looking into the booth he could see Scott was crying. Antonia appeared to be comforting him as she dabbed a kleenex to her eyes. Visibly shaking, Scott managed to pull himself together and punch up La Bamba. 

Scott seemed fine after that and they finished the show without further drama. After thanking Miguel and extending an open offer to return whenever he wanted, James shut off his mike and signaled to Scott to stop recording, then went into the booth to check on his engineer.

"Hey, man," James said. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Scott said, standing up. "I'm good. Sorry, Doc." He took a breath but continued to struggle with his tears. "I need to go. I just, I'll come back later to finish up. I'll have it ready for you to review by first thing tomorrow, I promise."

"His girlfriend dumped him," Antonia said as she wiped away a sympathetic tear.

"What? Lisa dumped you?" James asked. "Haven't you been dating since high school?"

"Yes," Scott answered, once again shaking, sobbing.

"I'm so sorry, Scott," James said. "Look, I know how much this sounds like the stupid stuff people tell you at a moment like this but I do know how much you're hurting and -"

"Yeah," Scott interrupted, sniffing back the tears. "I don't want to talk about it right now, Doc. I, uh, I just, you know, I'm going to get going. I promise I'll have post done tomorrow."

"Sure," James said. "Not a problem. You've got my cell. Call me if you want to talk. And definitely call me if you're too drunk to get home and need a ride. Okay?"

"Okay," Scott said.

"I mean it," James said.

Scott sighed as if the weight of the world had fallen from his shoulders and he had no idea how he would pick it back up again. "Thanks, Doc. I promise"

*****

They had decided to get something to eat at Moby's after the recording session and Miguel had conveniently excused himself; he stood a couple of tables away, chatting with a group of students he'd recognized from one of his classes.

"Do you know why I came along with Miguel today?" Antonia asked.

"You couldn't believe there was another person on the planet who loved Flaco Jimenez as much as your brother?" James asked. 

She smiled. "Miguel said I had to come with him to save a sweet man that a witch had cast a spell upon."

"A sweet man?" James asked with a smile. "I'm touched. I'm not so sure it's true in my case - I like to think of myself as more savory than sweet."

Antonia seemed taken aback for a moment. "Ah!" she finally said. "You like to think that you're funny, too."

"Despite all evidence to the contrary," James said. "Yes. I suppose I do think I'm funny. Maybe I just haven't found my audience yet." 

Antonia nodded. "You believe in witches, though?" she asked. In response to the confused look on James' face, she added. "You challenged the assertion that you're sweet but didn't bother to deny the existence of witches."

James shrugged, feeling a little nervous. "I don't not believe in witches," he said. "The world is, after all, a strange and sometimes wonderful place."

"Miguel told me your heart was stolen by an enchantress," Antonia said.

James smiled unconvincingly. It's impossible to hide a broken heart, and he wasn't sure why he was trying.

"My brother is something of an intuitive," Antonia said. "I've never known him to be wrong."

"Seriously, I really don't think of myself as sweet," James said.

"You were very kind to your assistant, Scott," she said. 

"He's just a kid," James said. "Part of my job is taking care of him and the other students. And I've been where he's at right now. Recently, in fact."

"Yes," Antonia said. "I know. Miguel told me about Amanda, the enchantress who stole your heart."

"Yeah, well," James said. "She didn't keep it."

"When you first met me, you thought I was Miguel's wife and you called me beautiful, the kind of pro forma compliment one makes when you first meet a friend's wife but it felt, well, sincere in your case." She shrugged. "That was sweet."

"It wasn't a pro forma compliment," James said.

"You don't really think I'm beautiful, do you?" Antonia asked. "With this nose? I suppose I'm the one who actually looks like a witch. I've sometimes thought about having it fixed."

"Don't," James blurted. His cheeks flushed red. "I mean, it's your nose, of course, and you can do what you want, but I think… never mind."

"No, please," Antonia said. "Tell me."

"Well, okay. It fits your face. The strong cheekbones, the jawline, and anything that calls attention to your eyes is definitely a good thing." He paused, blushing. "Apologies, I really don't know why I said all that."

Antonia smiled and James felt as if all his sins had been forgiven. "You are sweet. I think you're the kind of man who thinks every woman he meets is beautiful."

"Well," James said, "so far."

"You realize that's a statistical impossibility, don't you?" she asked.

"Maybe I'm just lucky," James said.

"Maybe you're just sweet," Antonia said.

"Do you mind if I ask you why you were crying?"

"He cried, I cried," Antonia said. "I'm a sap. It happens."

"Sure," James said and smiled. "I can see that." But it seemed to James there was clearly something Antonia wasn't telling him. 

"Tell me about your broken heart," Antonia said.

James considered it. He nodded. "Okay, but let me ask you something first."

"Go ahead," Antonia said.

"Do you believe in love at first sight?" James asked.

"Absolutely," Antonia said. "It's happened to me."

"You're married?" James blurted, trying too late not to sound disappointed.

"I was," Antonia said. She paused. "I'll tell you about my broken heart if you tell me about yours."

"Really not much to tell," James said. "Cupid can be a real jerk. I was smitten. I'm an academic, a professional reader of books, so I have some familiarity with the human condition and yet I can't seem to dismiss romanticism as merely a literary construct. It felt real. For me." He shrugged. "It takes two, doesn't it? That's the catch. Love at first sight. It isn't just what you see, it's what the other person sees, too." He sighed. "Or doesn't."

"You are sweet," Antonia said.

"Hello."

James hadn't seen Amanda at a table when they came in and realized that he hadn't looked for her, unlike every other day since he first met her. Hehadn't noticed her come into Moby's after they arrived, either, but here she was, standing at their table.

"Hello," James said.

She leaned in and dropped her voice as if sharing a confidence with Antonia. "I wouldn't get too serious about this one. I have it on good authority he's in love with another woman."

"Yes, I know," Antonia said. "He told me."

"Where are my manners?" Amanda said. "I'm Amanda -"

"Amanda Reagan," Antonia said. "Yes, I know. We've met. I'm Miguel Martinez' sister."

"Oh, yes, right," Amanda said, a bit flustered. "We met at that faculty, um, thing, right?"

"That's right," Antonia said. "The faculty thing."

"Hey, Amanda!" It was Miguel, his smile as fierce and as bright as ever. He had come to their rescue. "You remember my sister Antonia, of course. And I know you know James."

Amanda nodded with a thin smile that was not so fierce nor so bright as Miguel's. An uncomfortable silence followed as James was unwilling to invite Amanda to join them for lunch and Amanda had not yet figured out her exit plan.

"Well," Amanda said at last. "Enjoy your lunch. See you Monday, Miguel. Nice to meet you again, Ann, uh -"

"Antonia," Antonia said.

"Antonia," Amanda said. "James." And with that she disappeared as suddenly as she'd appeared.

"Sorry about that," Miguel said as he sat down.

"Are you okay?" Antonia asked.

"Yes," James said. "No." He sighed. "I'd say I need to just get over it but maybe I just need to get used to it." He shrugged.

"I told you," Miguel said to Antonia.

"Told you?" James asked Antonia.

Antonia smiled that mischievous smile. "That you're sweet," she said.

*****

Moby's Diner… Night Club? Some kind of slam poetry reading? I'm at a podium, reading from The World According to Garp. The place is crowded with nouveau beatniks and aging hipsters. They snap their fingers when I finish my reading. First novel. Vienna. Always wanted to go there. A blonde bombshell chanteuse has now taken the stage - Amanda obv. - and she's singing Donovan's Season of the Witch. She's accompanied by a dark woman dressed like a Romani princess in an old black and white vampire movie, with silver bracelets and earrings and rings on all her fingers, playing the accordion. A black lace veil. Can't make out her face. Antonia? The accordion really works with that song. Ain't it strange? Chris and Deb at a table in the far corner. They are smiling at the singer, at Amanda, and they sway in their seats in time with the music. They are dressed in matching, pink cowboy outfits. WTF? They look over at me. I smile and wave. Their faces grow dark. Chris points at a badge on his vest. They shake their heads slowly - ominously? - then look back at Amanda. They smile and slow dance in their seats again. Scott and his high school sweetheart Lisa are seated at the next table. Fighting. Arguing. They're wearing iridescent green eyeshadow and heavy black eyeliner. Their heads have antennae? Lisa rises into the air and flies out of the room. Scott puts his head down on the table. He's crying. I move to the empty seat next to Scott. I open my mouth but no words. My voice sounds like music; can't recognize the tune.  Miguel, dressed in a monk's habit, brings a drink to the table. It's bubbling. Wisps of white smoke rise from it like a cartoon potion Bugs Bunny might serve Yosemite Sam. Miguel says, "Drink this. It will help." Help what? "What is it?" I ask. "Rain water," he says. I push the glass across the table to Scott. "He needs it more than I do." Scott drinks the potion and slams the glass down on the table. Miguel nods. Now Scott rises into the air and flies out of the room. Miguel smiles. He leans in, glances over his shoulder at the chanteuse and the gypsy, then confides, "She's very beautiful, isn't she?" I say, "Yes, but I don't like her singing voice." Miguel smiles. "Not the singer; the woman playing the accordion. She's very beautiful, isn't she?" The song ends to a round of desultory applause from the hipsters and Amanda joins Chris and Deb at their table. "You're on," Miguel says to me. "I already did my reading," I say. He points to the stage. "Sing your song." I'm on the stage. Does anybody ever walk anywhere in a dream? Antonia begins to play. I recognize the opening chords. It's an old Roy Orbison song. She's a Mystery to Me… I'm singing. I'm pretty good! (Maybe. I sound a lot like Orbison himself.) Chris, Deb, and Amanda get up from their table and leave in the middle of my song. Now the crowd is singing along! I finish singing my song. The lights go down. The darkness is filled with applause from the hipsters and the snapping fingers of beatniks. I wake up.

James had spent about 15 minutes of his morning searching in vain for a version of Mystery Girl with accordion. He sipped his now cold coffee and reviewed his notes from the dream he'd had the night before. He didn't normally journal his dreams. In fact, he rarely remembered his dreams but he had felt compelled to write down everything he could remember from this one immediately after waking, before his morning shower, before the now cold coffee. He felt sure this dream meant something but somehow his years of critical analysis, deconstructing motivation, identifying subtext, and knowing the meaning of oh so many words was not helping him get to whatever that meaning was. 

He looked through his dream notes again. He hoped Scott was okay. He hoped his broken-hearted engineer was still drunk, passed out in his dorm room and decided to head over to The Carraway to take care of post himself.

When James arrived, Scott was in the studio, in the booth, and there was a young woman with him. She was pretty in a girl next door cliche of pretty and dressed in a carefully disheveled, second-hand bohemian fashion, as if she was rebelling against societal norms but not too hard. 

"Hey, Doc!" Scott exclaimed.

"Good morning, Scott," James said. He glanced at the young woman and back at Scott. 

"This is Jen," Scott said.

"Jan," she said as she gave a small wave in hello.

"Jan," Scott repeated. "Sorry. Hey, hope you don't mind. I brought Jan in to help with post. She's a mechanical engineering major. She recalibrated the recording equipment for me."

She gave Scott a smile. "It was nothing. Happy to do it."

Recalibrated the recording equipment? Is that what the kids are calling it these days? James thought. Maybe Chris was right. I probably could use a good recalibration. "Thank you," he said to Jan. "Looking for a job?"

"Hey!" Scott said.

"I'm kidding," James said. "You know I love you, Scott."

"He is kind of lovable, isn't he?" Jan said.

James smiled at Scott who grimaced in return. They both understood that Scott had just gotten a nickname. "Just send me a text when you're done, Lovable."

"Will do, Doc," Scott said.

"Nice to meet you, Jan," James said.

"Nice to meet you," she said, but she was looking at Scott.

*****

"Hello."

James recognized Amanda's voice before he looked up from his time weathered and dog eared copy of Slaughterhouse Five. In fact, he wasn't sure at first if it was really her or a memory he'd been unable to forget.

"Hello," he said. He smiled. He felt okay. He felt good. He knew he was going to be okay.

"Are you busy? This won't take long but… I could come back later," Amanda said.

"What? No, I'm sorry," James said as he stood up and gestured at the chairs across from his desk. "Please, come in. Have a seat."

"Thanks," Amanda said.

James sat after Amanda and said, "How are you?"

"Good." She shrugged. "How are you?"

"I'm thinking of starting a band," James said.

James waited for a reaction but it was not forthcoming. "So, what is it that won't take long?"

Amanda hesitated, pressing her lips together, then said, "I knew a man who told me he loved me. Before. My ex. Tom. Tommy. He swore that he loved me. He said he loved me twenty times a day. I let myself believe it. But it wasn't love. It was obsession. It was possession." She paused. "He tried to rape me and I beat the shit out of him. Broke a couple of bones in my right hand breaking his jaw." She shrugged. "He was too embarrassed to press charges."

"You don't have to -" James began.

"I just wanted you to know, I mean, I feel kind of stupid saying, it wasn't you, it was me, but, it was me. When you said you loved me, it just, I felt this uncontrollable rage and I know that's not… Deb thinks I should just, I don't know, I mean, I get that I shouldn't be giving a second thought to Tom but…"

"But you loved him," James said.

"Yes," she said as tears dropped from her eyes. "I mean, I thought I did. Whatever the fuck love is." She sighed. "I don't know any more."

"You never did, and you never will," James said.

"What?" Amanda said.

"Nobody knows what love is," James said. "A thousand works of art, a million books, and a billion songs have been written about love over the course of man's existence on this planet and we're still making art, writing books, and singing songs, because we still haven't figured it out. It's a mystery that will never be solved." James smiled. "It's magic in the truest and oldest sense of the word. You just have to be open to it."

"You actually believe that?" Amanda asked.

"I actually believe that," James answered. "I also believe that sometimes the magic works, and sometimes it doesn't"

She wiped away her tears and stood up. "I can't believe in magic. At least, not now. Maybe never again." She forced a smile. "You see? It's not you. It's not you." 

"I know," James said.

"I'm sorry," Amanda said.

"Me, too," James said, but only because he thought it was the kindest thing he could say in that moment. He felt a little sad, but not for himself. 

She turned to leave. As she reached the door, James said, "Goodbye, Amanda."

She did not turn back. 

It felt, to James, like the end of a novel.

A moment later, Miguel and Antonia appeared at his door. He stood to greet them. "Hello. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise."

"I'm heading back to Boston and just wanted to say goodbye before I left," Antonia said.

"Oh," James said. "So soon?"

"I've got a job to get back to," Antonia said.

"Of course," James said. 

"We just passed Amanda in the hallway," Miguel said. "She kind of flew past us but I could tell she was crying."

James nodded. "Yeah. I think we just broke up. Which is kind of weird in that we never really dated." He shrugged. "Well, I am glad you stopped by. It was really nice meeting you. I…" He couldn't help thinking about the dream.

"Yes?" Antonia said.

It seemed like something that would've come up but he couldn't help asking, "You don't play the accordion, do you?"

"Only in my dreams," Antonia said with a small laugh. "Miguel is the musical one in the family."

"I'd like to see you again," James said.

"I'm going to see if Amanda is okay," Miguel said, and with that, he was gone.

Antonia tilted her head to one side. "You're not in love again, are you?"

"No," James said. "I mean, I don't think so." He shrugged. "I don't know. I just, well, you're… you're a mystery to me."

Antonia smiled. "Everyone is."

James smiled. "I suppose you're right about that."

Antonia nodded. "Of course I am. I'm quoting you."

"Quoting me?" James asked.

"Aren't we all just love songs on the radio?" she said.

James nodded and smiled. "Yes. We are. I hope you'll let me know the next time you visit Miguel. I'd like to make dinner for you," James said. "And you still owe me the story of your broken heart."

"I guess I do, don't I?" Antonia said. "Maybe you could visit me in Boston. I'll take you out to eat. Miguel tells me you like Italian. North End. Can't get better Italian food anywhere else. Outside of Italy, of course."

"I'd like that," James said. 

They heard Miguel's voice calling Antonia's name from the hallway.

"Well," Antonia said. "I guess I've got to go. Take care of yourself, James."

"You, too, Antonia," James said.