The Good Hair Family Sitcom

S2 E4.2: 40

Brayden's POV

I always walk past Red Rooster Records on my way home from school. Actually, usually I take the bus home, but sometimes I walk, even though it takes significantly longer. I just like being able to be outside with the air, unconcerned with time or deadlines, the things that restrict everyone else in cars so tightly. They're all trying to go somewhere. I'm just going, and somewhere I will eventually get. But there's no rush. Well, no literal rush. There is a lot of the band Rush inside Red Rooster, but of course I'm uninterested in that.

I enter into the store, becoming swept into the music of a guitar playing by the window where the lessons always happen, and I set my sights on the classical section of the records. While I flips through the selection, browsing even though I know I won't buy anything, for I've already invested much of my revenues from last year's business endeavours in stocks, my eyes wander over to Bowie teaching guitar to a boy. But it's not just any boy. It's Deion, recognizable by the fade of the back of his short, black hair, as well as by his dark skin, and the red T-shirt that was only peeking out underneath his black hoodie today but I now get to see fully.

I suppose my assumption was that he must be interested in more aggressive extracurriculars, like rugby or martial arts—or perhaps starting grass fires in the front yards of old ladies' homes. Any of those seem more suitable to his tastes than guitar. However, from what I can hear, he's actually fairly talented at the instrument.

For a minute, I pause to watch him play, but I eventually realize that my thumb has stopped on a pop-rock record in the display. How embarrassing. I quickly switch to the baroque compilations instead.

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Amber's POV

When I peek into my wife's art studio, I almost get sprayed by the paint flying off Andi's brush as she splatters a sculpture of an ambiguous species of bird.

"Hey, how you doing?" I ask.

"Great," she replies still slapping the sculpture with her paintbrush.

"You've been in here all day," I say.

"Have I? Didn't notice."

"Andi, I know what you're doing."

"No," she says. "You can't, because I don't even know what I'm doing."

"You're doing exactly what I did when I turned forty."

She drops her brush down on the table before spinning around, shouting, "I am not! I have not had anything to drink, and I have not cried once."

"Not that. You're freaking out. Hiding away."

"Why would I do that?"

She puts her hand on her hip, getting a handprint of blue paint on her embroidered jeans. I step up to her to place my hands on her shoulders as I give her a gentle smile.

"Because you're turning forty," I say, "and it's scaring you."

"Okay, sure," she admits. "I'm kind of scared, because life is moving so fast, and it feels like I don't even have time to breathe, because even just breathing takes time, so really time just keeps making things disappear constantly."

"Well, I didn't think that deeply into it, but yeah."

"I'm sorry," Andi says, shaking her head. "It's my birthday. I should be happy. Our friends are coming over soon, and it's going to be awesome."

"Are you sure, because—"

"I'm sure," she insists. "It's going to be great." She raises her hands and takes a step back as she adds, "And I should wash this paint off before I track it all over the house."