Page 40 of Rigid

I widened my eyes. “Who says I’ll still be in a club when he’s old enough to make decisions?”

“So, you’ll quit, or whatever?”

“Maybe.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Favorite album?”

She chuckled. “I thought you were going to say color.”

“I’m only asking important shit. Favorite album?”

“How can my favorite album be important?”

I glared at her in disbelief. “The type of music you listen to defines who you are. Okay, instead of favorite, if you were stuck on a fucking island, and you were going to be there for two years before anyone rescued you, what one album – if you could only have one – would you have with you?”

She twisted a lock of hair with her index finger and gazed down at the floor. After taking a few drinks of her coffee, she stopped fucking with her hair and looked up. “I don’t know. What about you?”

“Rolling Stones, Sticky Fingers.”

“Don’t know it,” she said.

I grinned. “You will.”

She hoisted her coffee, appeared to realize it was empty, and set it aside.

“Want another?” I asked.

“No thank you. I’m full.” She appeared to be preoccupied in thought, so I let her be. After a moment, she focused on me. “I think maybe Maroon Five, It Won’t Be Soon Before Long.”

“The album?”

“Uh huh.”

“Do you like Coldplay?”

She shrugged. “I mean. I don’t know. Kind of, but not--”

“You’ve said enough.”

“Why?” she asked. “Do you?”

“No, and if you did, I was going to leave. Coldplay’s a deal breaker.”

She laughed. “Really?”

“Yep.”

She chuckled, and then seemed to have an epiphany. “If you could meet anyone, dead or alive, and go to lunch with them, who would it be, and what would you say?” she blurted.

“Good one,” I said. “Let me think.”

After a moment, I met her gaze. “Kennedy. JFK. I’d tell him not to go down Elm Street.”

She looked surprised. “Why?”

“I think he would have made a great president. Things might be different now if he would have stayed in office. Same question to you.”