Page 76 of Angel of Thursdays

The common area was Lauren’s on Sundays. The couch was wide, deep, upholstered in an emerald green velveteen that had hardened in spots, which Lauren had once optimistically attributed to cigarettes. The skylight above them cast yellow and blue and teal in wedges on the wall, shifting with the clouds.

Cassiel sat on the couch and watched the wall. The headphones came off. Lauren’s place was quiet—no music, no TV, the street noise muffled by the bay window’s double pane, only the occasional noise from old plumbing and the house settling as distractions.

“You sleeping?” Lauren called, fixing two mugs of hot something in the kitchen. She knew the rough shape of what had happened, though he had left out the parts that scared him. She was good at filling in gaps.

“Yes,” he said.

“Liar. Eating?”

Cassiel did not answer. This was the type of thing his mother asked and he was tired of answering. He took the Midori MD out of his bag and opened it to the page he’d been working on.

Lauren came in and handed him a mug, then sat down on the other end of the couch with her own. She watched him for a minute before she said anything.

“What’s that?” She leaned forward and tapped the cardboard cover. Her manicure this week was highlighter yellow, dotted with purple mod flowers.

He looked at the page. Crossed-out song titles and three remaining entries. The first a city pop track he’d found by a singer named CINDY—the cover showed a woman in a red dress and he’d listened to “Must Be Lucky” four times before writing it down. The second was a Sade song that Peter played in the shop occasionally. Cassiel had never paid attention until the week after Christmas when his ring finger had twitched to the lyrics. And the last was a Sharon Van Etten track from the same record he had given May with the turntable. That one felt like cheating.

“I’m making a mixtape,” he said. “A response to one he gave me.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “What’s on it? Show me.”

“No.”

“Show meee—” She moved closer, scooting her ass along the couch like a dog.

“The tracklist is private.”

May had burned his CD in a public library, chosen the tracks in whatever manic method he used, written the liner notes in the insert in purple Sharpie, all before either of them had admitted what was between them was anything, and all of it was for Cassiel. The response would belong to May. It would be better than a text or a call or an apology.

So Lauren could see the outside of the notebook.

She rolled her eyes. “Okay! Secret fucking mixtape. I knew you liked him but you’re down bad.”

Anything he said would confirm he knew what ‘down bad’ meant and that it applied. Whether it still applied was a question Cassiel could not answer today. He kept his eyes on the notebook.

Lauren sipped from her mug and clacked her nails along the stoneware.

“So what’s the problem? You look constipated.”

He knew the feeling. Not constipation—the amorphous feeling that had been following him. He could not turn it into a track listing or a single declarative sentence that would translate into something defensible in a liner note.

“I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he admitted.

Lauren turned her head in the direction of the hallway and hollered: “CORDY. Cass can’t figure out how to make a ‘I’M SORRY’ MIXTAPE for his BOYFRIEND. Do you want to HELP.”

He didn’t correct her on ‘boyfriend,’ didn’t know if he needed to, if May wanted to take the word back. An ambiguity that grated on his nerves.

A door opened down the hall. The voice of Cordy—Lauren’s roommate with what Cassiel suspected was an affected British accent—came back: “Is he crying?”

“Not yet!”

“Then I’ll pass.”

The door closed again and a few moments later a large orange cat appeared from the hallway and jumped onto the couch between them. This was Alexander, who belonged to Cordy on paper, to himself in actuality. Cassiel liked Alexander. He reached out and touched his ear for a scritch, which the cat allowed. Soft. Alexander purred, and Cassiel let his hand stay a few seconds longer than he otherwise would have.

Lauren turned on the television.

“Right, so like—if you don’t know what you’re trying to say, why are you making it? What’s it for?”