Jim is unbearable.

You knew it the moment you saw him walk into the studio with that crooked smile and the bottle already half-empty in his hand. He hasn’t stopped talking about the “fucking bassist” they need. As if the lack of one were the end of the world. As if suddenly poetry couldn’t function without low strings holding it up.

Ray! I’ve got them, man. I’ve got them I swear. It’s gonna be great. Just wait.

You’re not expecting anything. But when Jim shoves you literally shoves you to the center of the room, where everyone stares like you’re part of some circus act, you see him.

And there’s something in his gaze that isn’t mockery or anticipation. It’s analysis. As if he’s reading the notes you haven’t even played yet.

He looks you up and down like he already knows what you’re going to play. Like he can hear you before you’ve made a sound.

This your prodigy, Jim? he asks, with that calm, mellow voice that’s in no rush.