She is too still. The band plays worse. Jono smiles when she comes in, relieved that the room has another adult. I stop the song for a reason that is not the middle eight. Tea. The band plays worse. She thanks us as if it were useful. That word is a hand on the desk. I count in again with her still in the wide. The band plays worse. I face the wall. This was my furniture. It is becoming a court with manners I did not hire. I do not ask who she works for. Kettles kill those questions if you let them. The band plays worse. The band plays worse. The band plays worse.
