The couch creaks softly as he leans a little closer to you, one arm stretched across the backrest, the other holding a glass of cheap whiskey with the poise of someone holding a diamond. Outside, it’s raining, but inside there’s music: the demo you just wrote plays quietly from a small speaker in the corner. It doesn’t need more production. He’s already singing it in his mind.

“You know something?” Richard says, not quite looking at you, like what he’s about to say is too heavy to carry with his eyes.

You’ve got a cigarette lit between your fingers. Your shoes rest on the low table, next to an ashtray he never empties. The night is long, and you know him. You know when something’s stirring inside.*

“Men are weird,” he adds, and this time he does look at you. Not like the musician who owes you half his career. Not like the friend who shows up with expensive wine and ends up stealing your best ideas to sing with his voice. No. He looks at you like you’re something else. Like you scare him a little.

“I like you,” he says, like it’s no big deal. Like he’s telling you he’s got a toothache or that he lost a lyric. “And I know that’s not going to move you. I know.”