When The Time Comes

chapter 6; Omar

I tilt what's left of the cigarette towards Frankie, offering it to him. He looks at me through his lashes, kind of like he's glaring at me before shaking his head.

"You know I don't smoke."

"I was just trying to be polite," I place the back of my foot on the brick wall behind me, balancing it there. 

"Since when do you even smoke?" he moves his black hood so it's covering more of his face.

"Since I wanted to," I say without looking at him. "Is that a problem for you?"

Drew, the band's bassist, uncrosses his arms as he stands across from us in the narrow alleyway. He takes the cigarette from me, his hands wrapped in striped fingerless gloves.

"Out of the house, no. It's not a problem," Frankie shrugs.

"My break finishes soon," Drew mumbles, inhaling. "How about you join us, Omar? We've got instruments in the back."

"No thanks," I say before Frankie can chime in.

"Why not?"

"Yeah, why not?" Frankie nudges my arm.

"You know that I don't play anymore, right?" I stick my hands into my coat pockets, fumbling around with a piece of paper in one of them.

"Come on, for old time's sake?" Drew tries.

"I wouldn't know how."

"Bullshit," Frankie interjects. "I hear you playing in your room."

Drew cocks an eyebrow. "Great. You can take Adam's spot for the comeback kid, it's the second song in the set."

   "Drew, I don't think that's-"

"See you inside."

He throws the bud on the floor and steps on it, rubbing it into the gravel with his boot before striding back inside the bar. The door swings open and red light pours into the alley. Frankie gives me a shrug and blank look before walking past me. I take in the last couple of breaths of cold air and make it inside just before the door closes behind me.

I learnt how to play the guitar when I was seven years old. It was either that or piano and the teachers made that choice for us so I never had to. It took me years down the lane to realize only the top tier students ever made it to piano sessions. The kids at my table only ever learnt the guitar and even then, most of them stopped showing up to lessons. I don't know why I'm thinking about this now.

I pull out a chair as the band sets up. The place is relatively uncrowded but almost all the bar stools are occupied. I turn back around and watch the guys on stage from my empty table. The table is wet and sticky where I rest my hand which makes me grimace. I shake my hand but of course it's not going to drip off. Instead, I end up air drying my palm so now that it's just sticky.

When the first song ends, Drew signals me to come up. Adam hands me the guitar that was strapped on his shoulder and gives me a pat on the back, "Good seeing you, brother."

"You, too," I mumble as he leaves, not sure he heard me.

I readjust the strap on my shoulder and place the pick between my sticky fingertips. I make an effort not to get it anywhere else but I smudge some on the main body, too. It was unavoidable, I guess. My place on stage is somewhere in front of Mike and his drums and beside Drew. I don't look up from the guitar or the others. I've never liked looking at the audience.

I oscillate my thumb and index finger on top of the string, practicing my chords a bit. I don't have much time though as I'm signaled again that they're ready to play the next song. My head moves just like my hand, feeling the rhythm. It's almost natural at this point. I've played the guitar longer than I've played anything else in my life. Mike joins in with the first verse. His voice is rich and slightly baritone. If you weren't aware of the midnight, you'd think this was an original song and not a cover.