When the call came, he was calling a break on practice. An entire set was done, and a few new songs -- three to be exact -- were tried, tested, tweaked and tried again. His ears were ringing -- for a ring or two of the phone, he missed that it was ringing at all.
     He wasn't expecting you in London that early in the day -- it's only afternoon, albeit late afternoon. He knows your schedule fairly well, so when you called, he was surprised. Happily surprised, but surprised.
     The Bush Garden Cafe, located at 59 Goldhawk Road, has a lovely little garden area with seating about inside and out. It's not open at all hours -- Balthazar wishes! -- and he's there waiting, sitting out in the relatively mild late afternoon sun. Yes, sun. It's a rare day in March with no rain, and it makes the area all the more quaint.
     He has a coffee already, and he is busy writing in the small palm unit, jotting notes on today's practice, editing a song, and making arrangements for later. Dressed today in dark jeans, a black blazer and the red and white striped shirt of the Bushmen, the Shepherd's Bush futbol club beneath it. His hair is slightly wavy as it ever is, but it's not sticking up all over -- he's not on stage. Instead it's swept this way and that in a relatively Mod sort of look.
     Balthazar reaches over and lifts his cup for a sip and glances up now and again to see if Gillian West is approaching.

     She is indeed approaching, back in Katharine's clothing, black slacks and tailored white blouse, hair a mess that bobby pins can't assuage. She's got a black coat on, and sunglasses, and a purse over her shoulder; on her feet, black walking shoes. It is practical, old-fashioned and stylish all at once. She smiles at you, lifting a hand in a wave as she makes her way over to you. "Hey, you."
     How American. She is friendly, but at arm's length. Maybe it's just because of the other night in the Land Rover. And then again, maybe not. Gillian tilts her head and looks at you critically. "How was practice? I'm sorry to rush you like this."

     Balthazar glances up, his smile meandering, and he tucks away the device as he rises. He is never anything less than polite. "Oh, no rush. I was just surprised to hear from you this early. It was productive," he bobs his head. "Loki's getting comfortable with the material. We're working a few more songs before this week's performances."
     There is a strange sort of distance. He picks up on it, but his smile is as warm as ever. He doesn't rush you or push you by sweeping you into a hug. Boundaries are firmly back in place. "Would you like a tea? They have organic scones. Pretty good actually."

     "Thanks, but I ate at school - I'd just be eating to be polite, and my waistline and my digestion wouldn't thank you." Gillian grins, and moves to take a seat. She looks at you thoughtfully, considering. "So ... I was thinking about some stuff, and I think I need to talk about it. Which is why I came up, really. I know there's never anything good that happens when a girl says we should talk, but I think before we get ahead of ourselves, we really should." She goes a bit pink, and glances away. "Especially after the other night."

     He looks at you a moment and then takes a seat after you. Balthazar sits forward, his hand wrapping around his coffee cup. "Sure," he says as thoughtfully. He keeps his gaze on you, his cinnamon brown eyes bright with his interest and his attentiveness. "I just want to apologize... again," Balthazar notes quietly, seriously, as he looks to the cup of coffee slowly spinning in his hand, propelled by his fingers. "I have felt badly about it." He looks up at you, smiling a bit. "As you know. So... anyway... you were saying..." The floor is open and you have it.

     "I'm not here to demand apologies. This isn't the nineteenth century, anyway." Gillian smiles quickly, but it doesn't stick around for seconds. She is very serious, very intellectual. "But it did get me to thinking. About it. About us. And well, about you and me and the fact that in the long run, there isn't really an us."
     She gives you a frank look, entirely straightforward; not entirely happy with the results, but too honest not to say it. "I like you a lot. I also like me a lot, and I like my studies. I like the work I do, the work I want to do. Even though the specific direction isn't set in stone, I know the general direction I'm going in, and I don't want it to change. And it's not the same direction you're going in, Balthazar."
     It's bad news. She waits a moment, then adds, "And I don't think you should change. I don't think you would - I'm not that vain. But I want to make it clear that I'm not giving you some sort of high and mighty girl from America ultimatum. Just - you're a musician, and that's cool. My sister is going to kill me when she hears I've been being logical at you. But I keep doing the math, and I don't see it adding up. Do you?"

     He nods. Not because he agrees. It is a nod to the universe. That makes me 0-for-3. I'm starting to think you don't want me here, Grand Universal Plan. Whoever You Are. Balthazar is quiet for a moment and then he looks at you. "I am not going to try to convince you otherwise, Gillian. I will say," his words are thoughtful, drawn out, each one spoken as if considered for a moment first. "...that I'm really disappointed. But I understand where you're coming from."
     When he exhales, it's like the wind has blown through and taken his breath away. He says nothing for a moment. He sits there. He looks at you a moment. The looks don't last long. They are glances. "I will say that I am sorry that this is the way it's going. I really don't know what else to say," he sighs and shrugs a bit.
     He's at a loss all the way around. It is a theme of late. "I think you should do what's best for you," Balthazar agrees at last. "I ... certainly wish you nothing but the best." And at that he looks at you directly a moment.
     The moment passes and he is pulling out a few bills for the coffee, tucking them under the cup to hold them from the wind. It's tip only. "I appreciate you... telling me to my face. You...certainly didn't have to, considering you went an hour out of your way." Just to break up with me. Well, to break up the possibility. We were never really together.
     "I shouldn't keep you," he says as he rises. Which is to say: I really need to be somewhere else just at the moment. He is polite to a fault. "You know... you're still welcome to come to the shows. You know, for Loki. I wouldn't want there to be any ... strangeness between old friends. I have no intention on being the Yoko here."

     "I like you." Gillian says it quietly. She can see that you are affected, and it bothers her. "And - I appreciate your not getting mad at me. It's not that I don't like you. If I were a different kind of girl, I ... well, I wouldn't be saying all this. But I don't believe in hurting people if I don't have to, and - saying nothing now would just mean later on, it'd hurt more."
     She doesn't pretend you are unaffected. But she lets you withdraw, biting her lip a bit. "I'd like to show up again, but I'll wait," Gillian says finally. "I'm sorry. Call me sometime, just so - you know, I don't have to wonder about you? I'm sorry." And she looks away.

     He chuckles a little. "Will making it difficult make it feel any better?" There's a look of mock hope there for a moment but then he shakes his head seriously. "I ... wouldn't want you to be anyone that you're not or... anything other than who you are. Anyone who knows you at all would say the same thing, I'm sure."
     He's a lousy liar. He did warn you. "Alright," he says quietly. "Maybe later," he concedes, his hands in his pockets. Call me sometime. Alright. These are things that people say. They are polite things to say when you've run out of anything else constructive to add.
     "Well, I suppose I better head out. Have.... a good one." Evening. Life. However you see fit to finish that. His hand is coming out of his pocket, bringing the device with it as he heads down the street to Uxbridge. It is a text message, sent to the universe.
     Fuck you, Bran.

Posted by rowan at March 12, 2009 04:46 PM