A Eulogy In 11/8 Time

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The best day of Sara Yarkoni's life was the day when she finally grew a pair and hung herself from a ceiling fan.

Now, the worst day of Sara's life had to be that first (and last) day working at WhiteLice. It was an internship thing to waste the summer between her first and second year at Yale. Her parents were so happy when they heard she got the position. Most proactive thing she'd done in her life. She had a bit of a knack for web design anyways, and it's not like they need interns to do any real software engineering.

She waited in the elevator along with three other interns (presumably). They were all dressed in button-ups and slacks. The usual Manhattan casual dress attire. No one spoke a word as they waited for the doors to open to the 23rd floor. The walls of the office proper were just panes of glass. Sara could see the construction of what would eventually be the new World Trade Center Building One in the next lot over. Sara was old enough to remember 9/11, and all the fear that came afterwards. A lot of fucked up things happened as a result, but there was a glimmer of pride that glowed inside her when she thought about how all these people got back on their feet and thought "let's build it again".

The small pack of interns stumbled confusedly out of the elevator like babies from a womb.

"Hello there! You're all here for orientation?" a woman called from their left, "Come over this way! We got some presentations before we dive into everything."

She had that "presenter" cadence to her voice that meshed with a "third grade teacher calling students in from recess" tune that instantly made Sara hate her. But Sara was too shy at that age to let it show, still trying to play the role of a good girl to get through life.

The woman showed the interns through a hallway where they could see where they would perform cheap labor for the next few months. Employees sat at rows and rows of cubicles, head down, giving themselves carpal tunnel syndrome. Truly living the American Dream. Apparently this is what Sara's parents wanted for her and Ana. Something stable. Something predictable. Something bland.

But hey, don't knock it until you try it, right?

Sara sat smack in the middle of the conference room they were using for orientation. Sitting too far in the back would've made her look like she was hiding, and too far forward would make her stick out as a kiss-ass. The middle was good though. Much easier to blend into.

Ten minutes later, the room had properly filled with interns, and the woman who had guided Sara inside took the podium.

"Hello everyone! And welcome to your first day here at WhiteLice! As you know, we're a loan management company largely focussed on financing new home owners. We work out of this floor and the one above us…"

The rest of the speech faded into just noise for Sara. The woman's rhythm was far too regular. Like the most boring backing vocals Sara had ever heard. But they still wrought of rhythm, and she couldn't help but tap her foot along. She wanted to go back home and play a few riffs on her guitar. Or do literally anything else. She almost prayed for something to cut this meeting off.

In the days to come, she would occasionally lapse into blaming herself for what came next.

CRASH

The entire conference room watched as shattered glass rained from the next floor up. And in the middle of it all, was a man, whose shoulder was quite throughly stuck with shards. Like a meaty pin cushion. He fell in slow motion. Sara could swear they locked eyes. Hers wide in surprise, his wide and manic. And in his expression, Sara could tell, the man had done this on purpose.

The orientation meeting was quickly called to a close, and the interns sent home for the day. Between the following onslaught of lawsuits and the ravaging financial crisis (yay 2007!), WhiteLice thought it wise to just, discontinue their internship program for that year.

Sara's mental health up until that point was never in great condition, but watching someone throw themselves from the 24th floor of a building set off a switch in her. Just this epiphany that life only lasts as long as you want it to. It's the sort of thing that's obvious when you say it out loud, but that day crystalized the notion in her head. When the world went quiet, and she was alone with the bad thoughts, occasionally that man's voice (at least she assumed it was his), would whisper from the recesses:

"You could just jump, if you wanted to."

We can also consider one of the many nights the crew spent drinking together for "worst day ever":

The shed Bradley purchased as a makeshift studio for the band was quite nice in the fall. Sure, it didn't have heating or air conditioning, but its walls were sturdy enough to block out the wind, and that's 90% of what makes the weather suck in BackDoor SoHo. That and the way the sky is always cloudy. Sara would look up and see the buildings rising so high above her into a blanket of grey and realize how low she was to the ground. How much world there was out there and how high everyone else could climb. And then the rain would start falling and she'd wished she brought her umbrella.

So, in the evenings House of Spades would just lounge about the shed like they owned the place, and raid the mini-fridge they installed if someone happened to buy a six pack. Unfortunately for Sara, she rarely liked the beer selection and forgot to bring joints tonight, so she had to navigate conversation entirely sober (which makes her no more graceful and removed half of her good excuses for saying dumb shit).

"The fuck you mean you tune into my cam shows?" Sara shouted. Veronica's mention of it was so offhand that Sara almost didn't notice. But then her braincells chugged a little longer and the words registered properly and she could not just let that go. The sudden outburst made Izzy nearly spit her drink (which would've been a waste of three bucks), and even made Jack double take.

"What? You're sexy. It's not something to be embarrassed about," Veronica shot back. She was not expecting such a rebuttal. But also in fairness to Sara, she wasn't embarrassed. Everyone here had seen her naked, and probably mid-coitus on multiple occasions. It's just the premise that there was someone she knew out there behind the screen, mingling with all the greaseballs she presumed made up most of her audience.

"Mrs. Exhibitionist wants to keep her clothes on for the band?" Izzy teased. She had front row tickets to knowing that wasn't the case. Jack snirked at that, but then collapsed back into his arms.

"It's just…" Sara fumbled for a smooth recovery, "if you want to see me without a top you can just ask." Nailed it.

Veronica crossed her arms and shot Sara a sinister smile, "You sure you don't want to put some qualifications on that?"

"Eh, what does it matter. I already fuck around with tentacles. Not a lot harder I can go from there."

Sara laughed at her own joke, but when she stopped she realized that she was the only one. Jack was completely conked out. Veronica hid a small knowing smile, but nothing more. And then there was Izzy, arguably the most important audience member for this specific joke, dead silent.

It's not like Izzy was ever super self-conscious about her condition. Hell, she even made those jokes with Sara when they were alone. It wasn't like some taboo had been crossed. It's just like, there are some jokes that you don't get to make when you're around your friends, and far too sober. Because that means that you thought through every word and decided "yeah, I get to say this now". It implies "yeah, I sort of mean this". It's the most true kind of thing you can ever say, because you thought it was so normal you didn't even hesitate.

It was a small thing. Sara and Izzy had hundreds of bigger emotional crashes over the years. But even well after their engagement, this day crept up on Sara to fill her with this intense urge to apologize to her fiancé once again.

Oh oh oh! And there was also every time Sara saw Bijhan after they broke up! Yeah those are good options too.

There was the first time, just outside the embassy. It was like, less than a week after the break up and Sara was doing that thing where she just let her feet take her somewhere without asking too many questions. Unfortunately, her feet weren't over Bijhan either so they autopiloted her to the worst architectural mistake to ever grace BackDoor SoHo. By the time she realized what situation she stumbled into, it was too late and she already got an eye-full of Bijhan exiting the embassy.

Unlike their first meeting, Sara was far enough from the building that she didn't run the man over, but just for good measure, she ducked into an alleyway.

"Fuck fuck fuck," she cursed to herself, with her back pressed up against the wall. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt.

The second time was mid-performance. The band had been on a dry stint for about a few months when they had finally got a gig over in Brooklyn. Everyone crammed into Veronica's car, and Jack and Izzy had to stick their appendages out the side to keep the drum set from careening into oncoming traffic, but they managed to make it to the venue.

Sara had grown used to seeing crowds filled with wizards and cybernetically enhanced catboys, so walking into this little hole in the wall without a single sign of magic gave her a miniature culture shock. Like, she knew that baseline New York was out there, she just forgot that sometimes it wanted to listen to her music.

Sara was able to distract herself from how freakishly normal her audience was because all the left over vape and blunt smoke formed a nice blanket over the audience, so the band could only see silhouettes through the fog. As the set wore on, the audience either ran out of joints, or were so enthralled in the music that they forgot to keep taking hits. The room felt electric. Sara thought that they must've really been on fire that night. A performance for the ages. Although part of her remains unconvinced to this day that Izzy didn't cast a literal spell over the audience. Very rare you can get away with that in SoHo without being called out.

But all of that intense concentration meant that there were no new pollutants filling the air. The normalcy of all these faces became more and more apparent by the minute. Sara used to play for crowds like these all the time. She had those recitals when she was a kid, and then the few gigs she got in college…

Except he wasn't in any of those crowds. That Persian face snapped her back to the present. Because she wasn't a kid anymore, with all those dreams ahead of her. Or a college student in the throes of being a dumb ass who could claim she didn't know any better. She was nearly thirty. Thirty. Fuck that's old.

Then the dumb kid part of her brain kicked into overdrive.

"Well, what are we gonna do about it?"

"We're still in our twenties."

"Let's do something stupid."

And so she ditched her guitar in the middle of the set and darted from the stage. She didn't look back to see how the rest of the band handled it. They would tell her later, between her gasping apologies, that they played it off real cool. In reality they did not. They just sort of awkwardly finished out the song, and then moved onto one where Jack could take over on vocals.

But none of that was important right now. The only thing that was important was chasing down the man who came all the way out to fucking Brooklyn to see her play. She worked her way around the edge of the crowd, trying not to draw too much attention to herself. Of course that was a futile prospect. She literally just left the stage. But an effort was made nonetheless.

Then she dived into the crowd, analyzing faces, surveying for Bijhan. But he was gone. Or maybe he was never there. It was hard to tell.

The door swung open in the back. A cold gust of wind washed over the crowd. Sara felt nauseously sober.

Which brings us to the third time. How does the saying go? Third time's the charm? Good things come in threes? Well none of those apply here.

She was at the JFK airport to pick up Ana. She had made a trip to see some of the extended family in Iran, and while Sara couldn't drive, she thought it would be nice for Ana to see a familiar face after touching down again in the states.

Sara was kind of proud of her sister for heading out that way. Ana really had gotten a nice tour of the world. In addition to the flight to Iran she's gotten a full train tour of Europe, a road trip through the national parks in the western US, and hiking down in Peru. Like the whole nine yards. And then Sara was just… there. In The Big Apple. Like always.

Sara had set up shop plucking away at her guitar near the baggage claim. It was the best she could do to stay awake (Ana was getting in on a red-eye, and Sara barely slept the night prior). Every few minutes a new glut of travellers would spill out of the escalators and scatter among the carousels. Sara would scan their faces for familiarity, and when none caught her attention she would go back to strumming.

A new batch arrived, this time with distinctly Persian faces. Sara perked up, and started scanning. Not Ana. Not Ana. Not Ana. Not Ana… wait.

That was Bijhan, right?

Yeah, like that was totally Bijhan.

Sara slung her guitar across her back. No hiding like at the embassy, and no hesitating like at the gig. She made a beeline for him this time, but didn't run to draw attention to herself. He wasn't getting away. She just wanted to talk was all. Just get lunch was all. Just get back into his life, just a little bit.

She felt a bit like a ninja, dipping in between passengers, hiding herself so she could get closer, and closer. Until she was within arm's length of Bijhan. She tapped him on the back. He stopped and turned around, but before Bijhan had time to react Sara sprung in a full blown hug.

"Long time big guy," she said. Was she coming on strong? Yes. Most certainly. But coming on strong was sort of her thing. "It's been a minute. Want to get lunch?"

"I don't…"

"You don't know? Oh come on, I'm not asking to fuck right away. Just lunch."

"Wait… fuck? What are you talking about?"

Bijhan pushed her away.

"What the hell was that for?" Sara barked back.

"I don't know you!"

"Look, I know the break up wasn't great but you definitely remember me."

Sara's eyelids felt heavy. She let them fall, but then lifted them again. But the blink was all it took for Bijhan's face to morph. Then she blinked again. And again. And a few more times and Bijhan was no longer there.

"I— what? Why are you… never mind. Just don't follow me."

Sara couldn't decide if the look she got was fear or disdain, but she felt like she needed to jump down a pothole right away. Full on delusional. That's one the psychiatrist might actually have to hear about.

And it managed to get even worse.

"Sara? You ok?"

Ana ran over and waved her hand in front of Sara's face.

"You good?"

"Yeah… yeah. Just a mistake. Similar faces or something."

"That looked like there was a bit more to unpack there than just mistaken identity."

"You're not my psychiatrist."

"Geez, sorry. Only wanted to help."

"You know how you could help? You could carry me back to my apartment."

Ana laughed, but Sara really meant that.

This one's a little hazy. Hard to see through all the smoke.

"Four months."

"Wait really?"

It wasn't often that Veronica and Sara hung out together, just the two of them. If Veronica was there, then usually Jack was too. And if it was for band stuff, if Sara was there, Izzy was probably around.

"It's just so damn expensive! Fuckin NYC standard of living my ass."

"Yeah, but like, I thought the check ups were helping?"

"Not more helpful than paying rent."

Of course, Sara and Veronica liked being around each other. They probably listed each other in their dream blunt rotations. It's just that, like, sometimes its hard to find one-on-one time even with people you care about.

"I guess it isn't…"

"Besides, if I went back now I'd probably have to pay for the two other sessions I said I'd… pay for later."

"Jesus christ Sara."

"She's too nice to sick debt collectors on me."

Veronica took another deep hit, "Well, if you still need to vent, I'm here."

"Yeah, but you're high."

"Doesn't make me any less qualified." Veronica handed Sara back her joint.

"I dunno. Don't want to dump all my shit on you."

"Don't think I'm up to handle it?"

"No, no. Like—" Sara inhaled, let the smoke expand in her mouth, and then blew back through the filter, "Aaaaa."

"Alright, alright. How about we trade shit to dump on each other. That work better?"

"Fiiiiiine," Sara took another hit, "I think Izzy keeps hanging around me out of pity."

"What?"

"Like, look at me! I can barely put my shoes on, and I have the self-control of a toddler. I surprise myself every time a bartender doesn't try to card me."

"You and I both know Izzy doesn't really do the pity thing."

"But what if she does like, just for me?"

"Have you tried talking to her about it?"

"Fuck no. How the fuck am I supposed to bring that up?"

"Have you tried 'Isabella Kawajiri, I want you to never leave my pathetic sight. Will you be my wife?'"

Sara let out a cackle "Oooh that's rich. You're somehow worse than I am!"

"Eh, worth a shot."

"Maybe maybe. Now your turn."

"Ok, um, I think Jack is keeping a clone of my soul somewhere."

Sara nearly choked on her blunt smoke.

"What?"

"It's squid magic or something, I don't know. Just sometimes after sex I catch him like, plucking hairs off me and shit and he talks about how he still can't find 'compatible' partners."

Sara started giggling.

"Oh, you think this is funny?"

"Giiiiiiirl, you've just told me that someone values you too much. That gotta be ironic or sad or something."

"You don't think being stored as a back up is creepy? I don't want to be kept alive against my will. That just feels so… I don't know."

"I wish Izzy had a back up of me. Put my soul up on version control. Commit every time I do something she likes. That would be fan-fucking-tastic for my self-esteem. But no, you're out here bitching to me about it."

"I was just venting…"

"Well vent about something better."

"Sheesh," Veronica nearly fell out of the chair, but managed to catch herself, "You want to gatekeep feeling shitty?"

"I was just hoping you would be complaining to me instead of fucking bragging!"

"Well I was hoping I'd get some sympathy!"

"Yeah. No luck V. You gotta," more coughs, "pay someone for that."

And then, who can forget, it's an absolute classic, the recital of '03.

The weekend prior Ana had gotten one of her paintings into a small exhibit that was going up near the Westmoreland Art Museum. Sure, it was an exhibit for high school students, but it was still semi-official recognition of an artistic talent. Something that's hard to come by at any stage of a creative's career.

Sara was able to keep her head up for Ana, be a proud older sister and all that, because she knew she had the recital coming up. A big one too. Apparently someone from Wick Records wanted to pop in and see if they could snag some young unsuspecting singer for an incredibly predatory contract.

"Are you sure you want to go with this button up?" Sara's mom asked, helping her with her cuffs, "We have that green dress you wore last time."

"It's fine. This is probably a little over the top anyways," Sara responded.

"Well, I'm not letting you go out there in a t-shirt and jeans. Besides, it's better to be overdressed than underdressed."

"You two almost ready?" dad called from downstairs, "Traffic is only getting worse!"

"We would've been done earlier if I didn't have to change again," Sara muttered to herself.

Mom finished up the last button on the cuffs and then clasped her hands around Sara's face. They were warm.

"You look great sweetie."

The whole Yarkoni family clambered into their little sedan and got started downtown. The sun had already set in the mid-December sky. The theater was in Manhattan, which meant that Sara got an eyeful of both the classic NYC skyline, as well as the technicolor display that is Times Square. Both Sara and Ana glued their faces to the windows. Despite the impressive lights, the city always felt like it was looming in the dark. Too much light pollution blocked out the stars, leaving a wasteland of black overhead. Like The Big Apple was the only thing in the world. And no matter how far you ran, you couldn't escape it.

By some sort of winter miracle, Sara's dad managed to find street parking near the theater. Another little lick of good luck for the day.

Once inside the auditorium, Sara said goodbye to her family, and then rushed backstage. Her cohort stood around the back. She didn't share anything in common with them other than showing up to the same recitals. She was a much quieter kid back then, so she never said much to the others. The conversations were all boring fluff anyways. Shit about the traffic coming in, about the weather outside. But that's what happens when you gather a bunch of pseudo-strangers together.

Then the show started. A respectful silence enveloped the green room. One by one the other kids would filter onto the stage, play their song, and then return. There was no applause when you got back, no congratulations. Just some knowing nods and maybe a thumbs up, because the next performer had already started their song and if they aren't going to interrupt you then you better shut your trap for them.

A stage hand peaked inside to motion for Sara to come out. She took a deep breath in.

"And up next with her rendition of the Moldy Peaches' 'Anyone But You', Sara Yarkoni!"

Part of Sara hated picking the most basic hit of their discography, but she was worried if she went too esoteric, whatever agent or talent scout in the audience would think she lacked mainstream appeal. Besides, she put her own spin on it. She got some friends to rerecord backing tracks that fit more of a start-stop style. Something with more changes in the rhythm. Give this textureless music some bumps and ripples.

The audience faded away as the music kicked on. Sara's foot started tapping to the beat, entirely of its own accord. The entry for the vocals rolled toward her like a train pulling out of the station: slow but unstoppable. She started to sing and—

Nothing came out right.

Two hands shot up to cover her mouth, but then she remembered where she was and tried to pick back up where she left off. Three bars of fine and then it hit again.

Her voice cracked. Again and again. These vocal cords refused to hit notes. An entire throat held a coup, live on stage.

Now her breathing was off. The theater filled more with the movement of air rather than music. And then her vision went blurry. Tears. It was a full scale breakdown in front of a hundred or so people, including a talent scout and Sara's family. Sara couldn't tell if she should save whatever part of her image she had left, and just exit the stage, or stick it out and keep singing. Ultimately, she never made up her mind. The momentum of the song just carried her indecision to the end of the piece.

She did not stay for a bow. She did not go to the green room (because her continued crying would definitely leak through the curtains). Instead she ran straight for the back exit.

It was cold outside. Snowing even. Sara was not dressed for the weather so she just took a seat next to the building and pulled her legs to her chest. Anything to make her smaller. Anything to make her disappear. Anything to help her forget she was the fuck up of the family.

Sara didn't know how long she spent out there. It was also unclear when her family started looking for her, but by the time Sara's mom came around the side of the building, a thin layer of snow had accumulated on her daughter.

"Sara! Oh my god there you are!" mom shouted. She ran over and started brushing snow off of Sara.

"We were waiting for you to come out since we weren't allowed backstage to check on you!"

"I screwed it up," Sara mumbled. It was mostly meant for herself, but mom heard it anyways.

"No you didn't. That happens to everyone growing up."

"But then I started crying and panicking and I should've just stopped and walked off and not embarrassed—"

A warmth washed over Sara. It was her mother.

"Honey, I know this hurts now. There's a lot of hurt in life," mom said, "But you know what? All that hurt, makes you appreciate everything that much more when you come out on the other side. When you feel like you're drowning, you'll fall in love with your first breath of fresh air. When you're lost in a dark cave, that just makes the first ray of sunlight that much brighter."

Except, Sara didn't wait for her ray of light. For her breath of fresh air. She was hanging from a ceiling fan reliving the worst days of her life as her pulse slowly faded. It's fitting really. That a fuck up like her would be reminded of all the reasons why people might hate her just before she moved on. But now the slideshow was over. Everything was going white.

Maybe this is the sunlight her mom was talking about. Maybe her life was the cave, and this was her exit.

Sara took a step into the bright.

Fuck, these lights are bright.

Sara Yarkoni sits in a lawn chair. Her hands are tied behind her back but she does not appear distressed. Rather, her downcast gaze indicates a sense of defeat. The area behind the lawn chair is entirely dark, and no features can be discerned.

Interviewer: Alright, let's start off with your name and position.

Yarkoni: Why does it fuckin' matter? No one's gonna watch this if they don't already know who we are.

Interviewer: Just do it.

Yarkoni: Fiiiiine. Sara Yarkoni. I sing and play guitar.

Interviewer: Is that all you do?

Yarkoni: No. I also do front-end web development, strip for cash on a cam site, and disappoint everyone around me. That what you're looking for?

Interviewer: Eh, close enough. Why did you join House of Spades?

Yarkoni: I guess I was bored.

Interviewer: Try again.

Yarkoni: What? Too straight forward?

Interviewer: Nope. Try again.

Yarkoni: Because playing guitar in my room by myself is fucking tragic?

Interviewer: Survey says? Nope. Give it another shot.

Yarkoni: … I wanted to have a good time.

Interviewer: Bingo.

Yarkoni: Not that it really worked out. All I do is look for a good time in the most self-destructive way possible which leads me down a rabbit hole of shitty dates, pounding hangovers, and bad days.

Interviewer: What is a bad day?

Yarkoni: It's exactly what it sounds like. It's a day which is bad. You know, like most days.

Interviewer: That's kind of a cop out.

Yarkoni: Oh, like you have a better answer.

Interviewer: I'm not the one getting interviewed, but I'll give you a hand. What makes a bad day bad?

Yarkoni: Something shitty happens on them.

Interviewer: But good things also happen on shitty days, right?

Yarkoni: Usually they're not all that memorable.

Interviewer: Then what about good days? What makes a good day?

Yarkoni: A day when something bad doesn't happen?

Interviewer: Far too simple.

Yarkoni: Fine! It's a day when I don't get burnt!

Interviewer: Ah, there we go. A real fuckin' answer.

Yarkoni: But that's why there's no good days. I'm always burning. I'm running around with my head on fire because the moment I put it out I remember how cold everything is and I want to light up again.

Interviewer: And now we're back to the shitty follow ups.

Yarkoni: What? You're trying to make me feel bad for feeling bad?

Interviewer: I'm trying to make you feel bad for thinking about everything in such discrete, binary chunks. Makes it way too easy to fall into spirals in your own head if everything keeps sticking to straight rules.

Yarkoni: Lecturing me about wanting to keep things in order… there's a kind of irony there. Most of the decisions I make have like, negative thought put into them.

Interviewer: Oh but you do want order or at least some goddamn consistency. You want everything to make sense so bad that you actively reject that part of you and just cause chaos anyways.

Yarkoni: Is that what you want me to say a bad day is?

Interviewer: Good days, bad days, it's all just shit our mind makes up to fool us into thinking the world makes sense. But you should know by now that the world doesn't follow rules. It doesn't give two shits about consistency. There's magic and cyborgs and portals to another dimension. The universe is infinitely harder to control than anyone gives it credit for.

Yarkoni: But that still doesn't mean I couldn't have made better decisions.

Interviewer: Will you stop it with the blame game already?

Yarkoni: I was born on fucking Staten Island and I've barely left the east coast! I've spent most of my life tied to this one fucking city, and everyone I've met in it either hates me or just refuses to see me. How could I not have done better?

Interviewer: I'm not saying there wasn't more you could do, I'm saying that even the thought of blaming yourself is a fucking poison you've gladly downed.

Yarkoni: From what? From hanging around my friends? From dealing with magic? From living in SoHo? Then I could've just made better decisions to avoid that shit, and kept my damn sanity!

Interviewer: It's not just the magic. It's not just the BackDoor. It's everything New York City stands for. "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere". You you you. In the eyes of the city, it's all up to you. If you succeed, it was on your own two feet, and if you fail its because your legs gave out from under you. It's a toxic place. There's no room for tripping over a crack in the sidewalk, or getting pushed from behind. Because most of the time, people don't just fall on their own. But in The Big Apple, that doesn't matter, because apparently, everything is your fault.

Yarkoni sniffles.

Yarkoni: So?

Interviewer: So… you did good. You tried hard, you fell down a few times, you made a few dumb mistakes, but you did good.

Yarkoni: Ok… I guess. Not sure why you're telling me that now. I've already kind of thrown away my chance at not blaming myself.

Interviewer: It's just, you know, advice. So you're not too hard on yourself next time.

Yarkoni: Next time?

Interviewer: Haven't you noticed? Your audience wants an encore. They want more House of Spades. They want more of you.

The rope falls from Yarkoni's hands. She brings them around in front of the chair to show she's holding her guitar. She looks up at the camera. Her eyes are red and tears have dried on her cheeks.

Yarkoni: More of me?

Interviewer: Fuck yeah girl. How many times do I have to tell you? You have the body of a super model, the voice of an angel, and the cluelessness of a small child. People love that shit.

Yarkoni: I'm not sure I believe you.

Interviewer: Sure. But maybe you'll believe them.

Yarkoni stands from the chair. She takes two steps forward, and the camera pans to show a microphone, and a roaring audience. Most of the faces are too covered in backlit shadow to be identified, however Bijhan █████████, Jack of Spades, and Isabella Kawajiri can all be seen in the first row. Yarkoni opens her mouth to say something, but then looks back at the camera.

Yarkoni: That's a cruel trick…

Interviewer: Yeah. It is.

Yarkoni: Why'd you do it?

Interviewer: Nuh-uh-uh, I'm asking questions. Now, last one. Why'd you do it?

Yarkoni: Because I hated myself?

Interviewer: Nope, nope. C'mon, have you not been listening to me? Try it again.

Yarkoni swallows.

Yarkoni: Because loving people is terrifying?

Interviewer: There it is, you dork.

Yarkoni: They want me to do good. Don't they?

Interviewer: You've already done good. Now they just want to hear you sing.

Yarkoni bites her lip.

Yarkoni: Could you uh, count us in?

Interviewer: It'd be my pleasure. A-one. A-two. A-two-three-four-five!

‡ Licensing / Citation

page revision: 20, last edited: 02 Nov 2024 09:29

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