Graham wondered musingly how he'd gotten to this place. He was actually standing outside a girl's apartment, holding a bunch of flowers and a bottle of wine, for Christ's sweet sake. He shook his head and laughed at himself.

The door opened and Cressida the Mouth, lately known as Loud Girl, stood in front of him, looking absolutely beautiful. She was wearing something purple, and her eyes glowed like violets.

He shoved the flowers and wine at her, saying, "I didn't know what we were having, so if the wine doesn't go, just save it for some other time."

Cressida laughed, saying, "We're having mac and cheese, and salad, I'm sure the wine will be fine. And thanks for the flowers, they're gorgeous." And they were, tulips, in all colors. She quickly pulled out a pitcher and put them in, while telling Graham, "Obviously there's no need to show you around, so please just have a seat."

He sat on the sofa and looked around. "Nice place. Lots of books. You like to read?"

"I'm a journalism major," she answered. "And yeah, I like to read as well." She opened the wine and poured him a glass, handing it to him as she sat.

"What about you?" She looked at him curiously.

"You mean you didn't find out all about me on the internet this morning?" he teased.

Cressida began to blush. "Look, I'm sorry about that, okay? I was just passing the time."

He decided to put her out of her misery.

"Okay, okay, I was a music major at Hamilton, I graduated in June."

"I think I read that there's a pretty important competition coming up for you, is that right?" Cressida took a sip of the delicious wine.

"Yeah, I'd rather not talk about that, if you don't mind."
And he closed up like a book, face becoming broody and cloudy in an instant.

"Oh, okay, I'm sorry," Cressida faltered, swallowing. "I'll just go check on dinner," she said, rising. She opened the oven and took the mac and cheese out. It was bubbly hot, crispy at the edges, just how she liked it, but her appetite was gone, it had fled with Graham's good humor.

She got everything on the table and called to Graham to come sit down, which he did without saying a word.

They ate in silence, with only basic niceties puncturing the quietude.

"Would you pass the pepper, please?"

"More wine?"

"Yes, thanks."

Cressida sat in mute misery, wondering how to salvage what had actually been going pretty well.

"I shouldn't have come," Graham finally said, putting his fork down. "I'm sorry, this was a mistake."

"Why?"

"I don't do social events very well." He looked at her earnestly.

"Is it because I'm not pretty? Not your type?" Cressida asked desperately.

"What? Are you crazy?"

"Well, I mean, just look at you and look at me," she nearly wailed. "And you obviously hate everything about me, all you've done is be mean to me every time we've seen each other."

"All two times?"

"I'm just saying, you spend your days hobnobbing with the classical music elite of New York City while I run around playing hacky sack with hippies who just like to get stoned in between going to class."

"Really?" His expression was humorous.

"You know what I mean." Cressida sniffed, hoping she didn't start to cry, her makeup would be ruined.

Graham sighed and poured himself more wine. "Look. I'm just not at a place where I can do—things."

"Like have dinner?"

"Like anything!" His tone was surprisingly vehement, his voice nearly yelling. "The competition you mentioned? The deClerq? My whole life depends on winning that competition. I need the cash prize to pay for my younger brother's school, or he can't go. And if I don't win, I can't continue to study anymore, either, I don't have the money. The chance to study in London, it's a dream come true for me; if I don't get it, I'll just be another musician in a city that's already crawling with musicians." He sat back swallowing. "So no, I don't have the time or the inclination to be social, or date anyone, or anything. My professor, Professor Thurman? She basically owns my ass right now. I owe her for about two years of private lessons that I haven't even begun to pay for. She'd have kittens if she knew I was out doing anything tonight other than practicing. She doesn't even like that I give music lessons in my free time. 'You don't have free time,' she says. You practice until the sight of a keyboard makes you physically ill, and then you practice some more." He wiped his face with his hand. "But she's opened so many doors for me, introduced me to people, had faith in me when no one else did—"

Cressida stared at him, stricken. "I'm so sorry, Graham, I didn't understand at all."

He waved a hand at her. "No no, it's my fault," he said in a defeated voice. "I should've made things clear from the beginning." He shrugged. "I should go," he repeated, rising. "I'm sorry if I ruined your evening."

"No, please don't go," Cressida begged. "At least, don't leave like this, when the last thing we said to each other was cross words—"

"What else is there to say?"

"I don't know." And she sat at the table, defeated, all of the lovely possibilities of the evening gone.

"Well, good night, then, and thanks for the meal." He rose and let himself out.

Cressida continued to sit at the table and pick at her food.

After a few minutes, she heard the piano begin downstairs, and smiled tiredly to herself.

Eventually she rose to clear the remains of the meal.

Meanwhile, downstairs, Graham pounded out the first movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathetique as though his life depended on it.

Fuck it all, that hadn't gone very well, had it?

And it was basically his fault. He'd known how the evening would end before he'd accepted, but he'd accepted anyway, hypnotized by her eyes and the thought of how she ran up the stairs, slim hips moving from side to side.

Idiot. He was an idiot.

He moved on to the serene, if overplayed second movement, going over things in his head.

How could he have handled it differently? Just stuck to his "no" to her invitation? Ignore how unhappy she'd been, sitting in the laundromat? But she'd been so obviously distressed, so upset.

He could definitely have told her it wasn't because of her not being his "type." And at least he'd told her it wasn't because she wasn't pretty.

He had told her that, hadn't he?

Not exactly. He'd called her crazy, to the best of his recollection.

Wonderful.

How, though, how could she not think she was pretty? With those eyes, that hair, the intense way she blazed up at life?

Speaking of blazing, he was now onto the third movement, with its intricate, fiddly parts in the upper registers. He focused on the music, trying to put lovely, passionate Cressida out of his mind.

She should have known. Surely she could tell he wasn't very social, that he had neither the time nor the means to date? Look at where he lived, for god's sake.

But she couldn't be expected to know the world of classical music. Most people didn't understand the work, the absolute, play 'til you drop ethic required to get anywhere. The way she'd sat there tonight, though, completely still, crushed by way things had gone.

He finished the piece in a blaze of pent up emotion before realizing that he'd spent most of the time he played it thinking about Cressida and not paying attention to the notes he was playing at all.

Great. It was the worst way to play, to just mindlessly hit the notes without thought, without contemplation. It was a terrible habit, and one he thought he was immune to. He went back to the beginning, resolving this time to think of nothing but the music, of what good old Ludwig had intended when he put pen, or quill or whatever, to paper.

But what was Cressida doing upstairs, right now? Should he go and check? At least knock and see if she was okay?

No, he should leave well enough alone. He'd explained things very succinctly, if ungraciously and bumblingly. Most women who were interested in him soon got turned off when they realized how poor he was, or how rude.

Dammit, he was half way through the first movement with no idea how he'd gotten there. Again.

He gave up in disgust and actually tried to slam the lid closed on the keyboard. He was unsuccessful because it was a soft close lid, thankfully.

He got himself a beer from the fridge, even though he'd already had nearly half a bottle of wine. He didn't care. Musically, tonight was over for him. And it wasn't like he was practicing the Pathetique for anything in particular. Most people didn't want to hear it these days, anyway, it was considered hackneyed in the extreme. Graham just pulled it out of his repertoire when he was feeling frustrated and emotional.

He contented himself by scrolling through Cressida's social media. She was interesting, a fun mixture of posts. Thank god she wasn't one of those people who posed endless selfies; no, her Instagram was a mixture of plants and photographs of the city, with a few of her and her friends tossed in. They looked like a fun bunch.

His phone pinged with an incoming text. It was from Katherine.

You busy?

This and that, he texted back.

Working on the Rach, I hope?

Yes, he lied.

How's it coming? Should I come and have a listen?

No, packing it in for tonight, probably go to bed early.

It's barely ten o'clock?

I'm tired. Good night.

He went to bed, just so he wouldn't be a liar, and ruminated. Did Kath really think he was going to ask her to come over?

Whatever.

He knew that it still wasn't too late to go upstairs and apologize. He also knew that apologizing wasn't the only reason he wanted to go upstairs.

As he was contemplating putting action to the thought, he heard the downstairs door open.

"So glad you texted," he heard Cressida say.

"So glad you weren't busy," he heard a masculine voice respond.

"No, not at all, just spending the evening in, unpacking and stuff. This is way more fun."

Before he knew what he was doing, Graham was out of bed and looking out the front window, being careful that he couldn't be seen from outside.

Cressida was smiling as she leaned into the person she was with, a tall guy with a ponytail. She was still wearing the pretty top.

Graham watched them walk away into the warm night, then he stripped down to nothing and got in the shower with the cold water on full blast. He let it roll down his body and cool him off completely, then he got back in bed wearing nothing at all, hoping to stay cool until he fell asleep.