Dark Museum

Josh

The tour would have been in Boston by now. Maybe Toronto, if time had gotten away from him. The company would have left Josh in New York.

He lay on the break room sofa with his arm crooked under his head, staring at the acoustic tile ceiling. They'd begun in earnest to ration the cans of tuna, granola bars, and boxes of cereal, and Josh was lousy with hunger. They'd expected to find their way out.

Josh lived in New York, where that last show had been. After Erica's pranks — the blood capsule, the ransom note and rumor on the same night — the company must have assumed he went home to sulk and abandon the tour. A move like that could brand him a divo, ruin his career; but surely they wouldn't have given up on him.

The show must go on, and all, but they would have kept trying to get in touch with him. Anthony would, at least.

Did I admit to him how empty the apartment felt? His confession after the performance made him cringe. Maybe Josh had only thought it instead of laying himself out like that, but there had been drinks in the lobby, and Erica had already emasculated him. Would have felt good to get it all out. Besides, it wasn't as though he and Anthony hadn't confided in each other when they'd been roommates.

Without another body, the apartment shifted from hours of inane conversation, cello scales, and clumsy banging noises to silence.

The refrigerator hummed.

The neighbor's baby cooed through the wall.

While Josh tried to fill the void practicing his violin or switching it up with the keyboard he'd kept in the closet since college, he spent more time in front of the TV late at night convincing himself aliens built ancient Egypt.

Anthony had found love with the Classical All-Stars; Erica was supposed to be for Josh what Steph had been for Anthony. The tour had been his life for the past three months — and would have been three more if someone hadn't kidnapped him. His chances of meeting people outside his musical circle were slim. If he screwed up with Erica, and she spread rumors about him, he didn't have a shot with anyone else.

So much easier to make friends as a kid.

But then there was Sophia. He hadn't planned to stay for the reception in the lobby, and couldn't now remember why he had. Maybe she'd been in the right place when he'd felt low enough. He would have chatted up anyone who'd stroked his ego.

But she wasn't just an ego boost.

Though Sophia liked exploring the museum on her own, forging for herself an enigmatic reputation, she let Josh join her. While she didn't know much about classical music, her enthusiasm for the pieces in her collection helped fuel their conversations. She'd heard of his friends he'd recorded with, his rivals, his idols.

Sophia lived in Queens with a roommate who made her feel like a parasite than a guest. Josh lived in Soho, recently losing a roommate. He almost invited her to live with him, said the first word, "You—" but he imagined her pulling away from such a forward action. They would have been great together, though, for all the way their lives overlapped. Her office building was closer to Josh's apartment, so the commute she hated so much would be cut to a fraction; when she got home, he'd be practicing a song she could unwind to. They both enjoyed visiting Jackson Heights for a spicy curry, both enjoyed a peaceful stroll in the Cloisters. They both watched garbage TV, shows they each had to coax out of each other.

"You'll think less of me."

"No, I won't."

"Okay, I'll tell you, but just know I watch it because I'm so fried at the end of the day — it's interesting, but I don't believe this stuff."