1. subito

(it.) suddenly

IF THERE WAS one thing Zander Reed dreaded, it was the alarming sound of his cousin's morning showers.

          There was rarely a time when Zander didn't cover his head with his pillow to avoid Tristan's noises and prevent his poor ears from bleeding. Zander's bedroom was, unfortunately, the one adjacent to the only washroom in their already cramped apartment, whereas his cousin's was at the far end of the hallway. To make matters much worse, the walls were not only coated in chipped paint but paper thin.

         Just Zander's luck.

         While the infuriatingly loud ceiling fan buzzed in the bathroom and the shower head ran, Tristan either attempted to jack off or recite human development facts at random in the same tone his professors would use. Zander wasn't sure whether Tristan aimed to study concepts or be cocky about still pursuing a post-secondary degree, but his cousin was sure as hell irritating.

          It was Friday morning, though, and that simply meant two things—a hungover Tristan and Percy Sledge's When A Man Loves A Woman.

         An unpleasant combination of his cousin's squawking and eerily deep pitches ignited a pulse right at the core of Zander's head. Tristan's singing was utterly off-key, and according to Zander, an explicit demonstration of why girls rejected his cousin from left and right during Live Music Night at The Dirty Plum—a quaint pub that Zander and Tristan considered their second home.

          I want to kill him, Zander thought as he rolled onto his side, shielding his eyes with one hand. A crack of sunlight peeked through the stiff gray curtains, reflecting itself on his wrinkled, burgundy sheets. The brightness permeating his room masked the reality of the bleak weather outside.

           Zander rubbed his cheeks and let out a soft groan. It's too fucking early for these stupid donkey mating calls.

          His gaze flickered over at the alarm clock that stood on the wooden nightstand he purchased at a nearby garage sale. Although it didn't exactly match his metal-framed bed, which was shiny and dark as onyx, he didn't mind. What mattered was how it was one of the few pieces of furniture that fit and functioned within the constraints of his cheap budget.

          "Jesus," Zander muttered, realizing that he had slept in once again, a habit he did not have the willpower to break. He squinted at his clock's digits, which seemed painted in fiery hues, mimicking the sun's blinding powers. Waking up was the absolute equivalent to hell, mornings the devil.

          Zander stretched the contours of his face with his fingers. How is it 7AM already?

         He immediately hopped out of bed and began to itch his elbow, frantically scanning his room for a shirt he hadn't worn earlier in the week. Most of his clothes were piled up on top of one another in the corner nearest the door, dirty and clean attire alike.

           After digging through the clutter for a few minutes, Zander settled on a black Hollister sweatshirt that his father gave him before he moved in with Tristan two years ago. It had a light, musky scent attached to it, his Eternity cologne refusing to escape the thin fabric, and it smelled fresh enough.

           As Zander changed into the unironed shirt and jeans, there was a quick knock on his door, a tap that had surprisingly more rhythm than the knocker's singing itself.

           "Morning, my dude," Tristan chirped, stepping into the room.

            Slipping into a pair of socks with images of cacti peppered all over them, Zander looked up to face him.

             His cousin, who stood at six foot on the dot with a sculpted figure, had the aura of a juvenile, pre-pubescent boy with the lopsided grin playing off his not-too-chapped lips. His raven coloured hair, damp from his long shower, hovered merely two inches from his shoulder blades, and the only thing he had on was the white towel clinging around his hips. Like a dog, Tristan shook his head, the water from his hair briefly splashing Zander's cheek, before combing through his locks with a steady hand.

             "Look what I found," Tristan said.

            Zander heard trinkets rustling inside the box his cousin clutched onto—something he didn't seem to notice at first glance. His eyes narrowed, once he caught sight of the leathered case that peeked out of the box and frowned. Now, I want to kill him even more, Zander decided.

           "Why do you have that?" he asked, irritation sewn into his voice. He walked over to the mirror hanging next to his drawer where he began to tame his stubborn baby hairs meticulously with some gel from the Dollar Store. He shot Tristan a glare through the reflective glass, his lips still twitching downwards. "I put that box in the storage room for a reason."

           "I know, I know," Tristan replied, chuckling. After gliding towards Zander's bed, he placed the box on top of the disheveled sheets and walked back to the doorway. Leaning against it, he folded his arms and placed one bare foot in front of the other, a smirk tugging at his lips.

           Zander rolled his eyes.

           "I just thought it would be nice for you to play the violin today, instead." Tristan paused, but his joviality didn't fade because, as Zander's co-workers at The Dirty Plum noted, he was the human embodiment of shimmering light. "If I remember clearly, Mom showed me a video that your dad posted on Facebook, and you were dope. Sounded like one of the greats."

           Zander drew in a long breath. "That was, like, four years ago. I've probably lost my magic touch by now."

            Tristan scoffed before raising a finger to his head and gesturing as he spoke: "Dude, you can't just forget how to play an instrument like that. It's engraved in that Beethoven brain of yours."

            Zander hated it when his cousin used that matter-of-fact tone. Tristan was often blunt with his goofy remarks and had the pleasure of embarrassing Zander when they were faced with dating prospects at the bar; with arched eyebrows, girls would awkwardly spin on their heel and steer away from Zander, as if the previous two minutes of introductions meant absolutely nothing. This time around, though, there was a hint of patronization in the way that Tristan referred to him as a musician, and it was enough to make him ball his fists slowly.

            Tristan then stared at Zander, eyeballing him to the point that discomfort poked at him.

            "It is possible," Zander countered, "but anyway, leave me alone, man. Let me be."

            He didn't intend for the underlying attitude to surface, but his feistiness couldn't help but manifest when faced with inquiries about his decisions. No one, especially Tristan, could take authority of his music-related choices.

           Not even—

           "Okay, bro," Tristan said as his hands raised defensively, unknowingly interrupting Zander's thoughts. "It was just an idea. Didn't mean to ruin your morning."

           "It's fine."

           For once, Tristan's peppy self began to fade, a slight grimace emerging on his face, washing away his natural, boyish grin. It was obvious that Zander had soured his mood, which was rare for the morning after Live Music Night at the pub, and it almost felt artificial. Tristan, for some odd reason, was at his happiest when hungover.

            After a moment of silence, Tristan then asked, "What's the matter, Z? Long night closing?"

            Zander hesitantly reached for the handle of the case inside the box Tristan brought into his room, instead of the guitar leaning next to his antique dresser. The leather felt cool in his grasp, but familiar. "Navin from the station told me that there might not be a point keeping me at Spadina because other, far better performers have been auditioning for my spot."

           Tristan's eyes widened. "No way. And he said that to you when?"

           Releasing his case, Zander walked past his cousin and made way to the bathroom. Twisting the cap of the toothpaste open, he said, "The man texted me right before we closed up at the pub."

           "Shit."

           "Shit, indeed."

           While Zander brushed his teeth, Tristan entered the washroom and grabbed some aloe vera cream from the medicine cabinet. Rubbing his face with a dollop of the lightly scented formula, Tristan raised another question. "What does this mean for you, then?"

            "I'm going to have to start finding another job or ask Denzell for more hours at the pub, which I doubt he'll agree to anyway," Zander said, toothbrush still in his mouth. He rinsed quickly and wiped his face with the back of his forearms, the reminder of him being utterly late for work lingering at the back of his mind. "Either way, we'll be screwed for rent."

             Tristan stashed the jar of cream back into its place, his eyes shifting towards himself in the oval mirror. He pursed his lips. "Z, don't worry about that for now. I can use my savings to spot you for the next month. Just focus on trying to get another job or something."

             "I can't just apply for any job," Zander said, a brief huff slipping past his lips. "You know that. I'm not a scholar like you, bro."

             Sometimes, at the brink of sunrise, Zander would lay flat on his bed, playing with his thumbs while fixing his gaze up at the ceiling, thinking about whether not attending college was the right decision. Tristan was academically successful in comparison, and Zander wished he had the guts to pursue a field as practical as business management like the former. His cousin already had a full-time job at one of the most popular cultural hubs in the city.

         Zander's heart, however, remained linked with the Arts—music, in particular. Everyone knew that you didn't exactly have to complete undergraduate studies to build on passion and gain artistic license in one's own right. Or, at least, that was what Zander convinced himself and his father to believe by the time university application deadlines drew close.

         Now, four years later, Zander could potentially lose out on yet another gig. So much for choosing passion over practicality.

          "Any place would be glad to have you. You haven't yet searched."

          "I will figure it out somehow, but I really have to go. I'm late." Zander paused, snagging his violin case, backpack and coat from his room. When his cousin turned to shoot him a quick glance by the time he stood by the door, Zander offered him a slight smile, not wanting to leave their chat on a grim note.

             "Maybe I should quit everything and become a stripper."

             Tristan barked up a laugh. "All right there, Magic Mike. I'll join you."

             "With your singing, you definitely should."

             "Rude." Zander laughed, too.

             As he was about to twirl the knob open, Tristan spoke up again, a trace of pride cemented to his every word. "Good thing I brought out that thing. Maybe you won't have to strip just yet."

♬

         Following the stampede that descended the stairwell to the subway station, Zander kept his hands jammed in the front pocket of his faded jeans, his headphones placed above his ears. It was a typical day in Toronto. People shoved and pushed in order to catch the next leaving train, not a single person having the courtesy to surrender their seats for mothers pushing strollers of one or two toddlers, or the handful of senior citizens who gripped onto the handrails, as if a metaphorical earthquake broke out. Little infants sobbed, and the copper leaves coming from outside danced their way down the stairs with help from the wind. The Toronto Transit Commission was evidently a gong show.

          After reaching the very bottom of the stairs, Zander fell to the sidelines and glided over to his spot by the brick wall, lugging his knapsack and instrument case behind him. As usual, the tiny block of space was empty and Zander claimed it, gently positioning his belongings on the ground.

Pulling off his headphones, his icy blue gaze shifted to the ticket booth where a long line began to form. A man in a grey hooded sweater and track pants was trying to say something to the ticket collector, Viv, but for some reason, the collector didn't seem to understand what he was saying; the employee's eyebrows knit together, her lips in an unamused, straight line. The rest of the people standing behind this man had traces of annoyance plastered on their faces, and Zander couldn't help but let out a low chuckle.

         He shrugged his coat off and jammed his headphones inside his pocket, tossing both on top of his bag. He glanced at his watch and immediately, his eyes widened. The small hand was seconds away from pointing to the number eight, and that meant the rush of people scurrying their way from the train, his everyday audience.

        Kneeling, he unzipped the case and breathed in, his nerves coming out of hiding.

        It's been awhile.

        There, cradled by the material of the case, was his violin. The lights hanging on the ceiling above him reflected on the smooth, mahogany finish of the instrument, and for a split second, his eyes fluttered closed. His violin carried a flood of memories, all completely unwanted but not forgotten.

          Not now, Zander said to himself as he fought to open his eyes, running the tips of his fingers over the wooden top of the violin. He took another deep breath and yanked the bow from the case. You have better things to do.

          Tightening the bow to his liking, he straightened his back and positioned the instrument in between his collarbone and jaw, holding it in place with his left hand. Before he had the chance to start playing, a sound suddenly began to ring in his ears.

          The sound of sky-high heels clacking against the tiled floor.

          Zander took it as a signal to pull the bow along the strings of his violin, diminishing the irritating sound of what probably were those expensive Alexander McQueen stilettos that feminine accountants and lawyers desired to wear to work.

          His thoughts in a clouded haze, he didn't have the slightest clue of what song he was playing or realize the fact people paused mid-walk to drop coins in his open case. He was probably off because he didn't take the time to tune it, though he continued to play, a warm expression spreading across his face. After all those years, playing the violin felt surprisingly easy as if he religiously conducted his own rehearsals at home. The melodies that rose from the bows of the violin brought a sense of calmness to Zander, making him forget about all the problems that he and Tristan had to deal with, inserting him deeper into his own unyielding bubble.

         That is, until a realization came to him like a lightning bolt.

         You've got to be kidding me, he said to himself, his bow slowing to a halt. Bending down, he set his bow on the case, away from the many quarters and—despite being out of circulation in Canada—a bunch of pennies. A Disney song. Seriously?

         With his violin still clutched in one hand, Zander fished his music sheets out of his backpack with the other. For as long as he could remember, he was hardly exceptional at sight-reading; it was his least favourite part about music. His high school teachers would hand him a new song to learn on the spot, expecting him to master each note within a matter of seconds. Once he failed to meet their ridiculous standards, they'd shoot him a disappointed look, a look that lingered at the back of his mind for the rest of the lesson.

         Just as Zander was about to grab a random sheet, ready to wing the next song, a twenty-dollar bill dangled before the subway performer. He did not usually receive a lot of tips when he played his guitar; naturally, he was shocked that someone would display appreciation for this.

         Zander's eyes met with the sharp tips of patent leather heeled boots, which began to turn slightly inwards. He lifted his head to convey his gratitude when he lost control of his grip on the violin.

         He gulped, his heart beginning to race.

         Standing before him was a young woman wearing a crimson dress and a tanned trench coat, her skin resembling the smoothness of velvet and her long hair styled to one side. She was the type of woman that Renaissance painters stared at for long, agonizing hours, seeking inspiration—the type that men fell to their knees for, begging for her undivided attention.

         Zander could not stop ogling at how her lips, stained with the same deep shade of red as her dress, were a bewitching masterpiece on their own.

         He attempted to pick up his instrument, but his clammy hands made it difficult. Oh, great.

         "You made my day with that song from Toy Story," the woman said enthusiastically. Zander noticed that her beauty was exotic but could not quite put where exactly she was from. "Not a lot of musicians choose to play classics like that these days and succeed."

         "Uh, you're welcome," was all he could muster, finding it hard to catch some air.

         The girl's eyes brightened, and Zander swore there were stars inhabiting them. She gently placed the bill in his violin case and smiled. She then pulled her dress lower and adjusted her coat before glancing at her watch. "Well, I have to go, but I hope you have a great day. Keep up the wonderful playing."

          Zander slowly rose to his feet, his legs shaky. "Thanks?"

         Thanks?! That's it? Z, you're an idiot.

         His eyes followed her as she passed him and curved around the corner, the sound of her footsteps fading against the trains' rumbling and the howling wind at the top of the stairs. Perhaps, he needed to bring his violin to work more often.

          If it meant seeing the lady in red again.