Cecil had set off for Floyd's shop that afternoon with all the excitement of a man being led to the gallows, and— as he entered— none of the desire to keep living.

“Cecil!” exclaimed a man sitting opposite Floyd. “It's been so, so long!”

This man, from beneath his meticulously cut blunt bangs, smiled as though someone had murmured the funniest joke in the world. Sísí was beside him, her lips pursed in a smirk as though she were the one who had told it, but said nothing.

“August?” Cecil started, looking in bewilderment. This bewilderment turned to visible annoyance and a deep grimace as he noticed the attendance of Eugene, seated beside August. Eugene looked solemnly back at Cecil, his arms crossed in a way that showed he had nothing but immense displeasure being there.

“Cecil! I was about to send Marion's thugs out to look for you!” Floyd began, motioning him over.

Cecil remained in the doorless entrance.

“What is this, Floyd?” he asked sharply.

“Why don't you come over here and we'll explain just that?” he rebuffed.

Cecil shook his head.

“No, I'm not interested in what either of them have to say. And I don't appreciate you keeping me in the dark just because you knew I wouldn't have come if you'd told me.”

Floyd's face grew severe.

“Cecil!” he barked as Cecil attempted to make an exit.

Cecil turned around, now scowling.

“I don't care to talk with them, Floyd! I don't give a crap about whatever stupid scheme you have cooked up— they're not good people and I don't want to ever see them again!”

August frowned.

His catlike ambivalent facial features pursed and altered as he watched Floyd rise beside him, scarlet in the face.

“We are well on our way to the top of the mountain, Cecil, and I will be dead before you throw us off of it! Do you not understand what an opportunity this man presents to us?!” he screamed, gesturing down at August Oakley.

August had his leg, clad in stylish corduroy, folded across his lap, and was looking up with wide-eyed curiosity at the boiling tea kettle that was the red-faced, foaming-at-the-mouth Floyd. He gave a silent side glance to Sísí who smirked and explained that Floyd had two modes— insane and pathetically insane. She couldn't decide which she liked best.

Cecil had responded to Floyd's outburst by storming out through the open doorway, prompting August to rise.

“I understand your anger, Cecil!” he shouted brightly.

He watched as Cecil halted.

“You have every reason to not wish to speak with me again, but I came hoping to make amends— an olive branch.”

Cecil turned around.

Does this olive branch involve you getting fucked? he thought.

“And what's that?” he shouted through the door.

August furled his brow.

“Oh, come inside first. I'll look like a fool just shouting through the door.”

Cecil acquiesced, and walked back into the shop.

“Now,” he said with dramatic flair. “Picture this— the Love You Forevers, all month long at the Strawberry Set!”

Cecil stared blankly at him, then to Floyd, then back to August.

“Are you kidding?”

“Not at all!” August replied, smiling. “I would love nothing more than to have you play!”

“It's a better opportunity than you'll ever get!” said Floyd angrily.

“What happened to Johnny Vallerie?”

August chuckled, glancing over at the wine-stained, crumpled cutouts.

“Like you don't know there's nothing left of him after what you did. I can hardly get even the regular drunks to stay around for him, now.”

He smirked and eyed Cecil playfully with his ruby eyes.

“Suffice to say, his residency has ended.”

“And now you just expect us to come in and keep the crowd flowing?”

“It'd certainly be nice, yes,” August said in rebuttal.

“The Strawberry Set is an institution in Peppermint Plains, Cecil. I don't have to explain to you how important this is!” Floyd exclaimed.

"That's not the point,” he said, then turned to August. “You left Sísí and me to dry. She had a good thing going— you knew that!”

“Believe me, I didn't wish it necessary! You two were my star pupils after all, but the Strawberry Set was in dire straits. How could I say no to a residency with Johnny? He was crowning the charts!”

“Sísí was bringing a crowd. It was becoming a regular spot for beatniks; like you wanted!”

“Beatniks are broke, Cecil.”

“You're a beatnik!” he yelled.

“I was— and then I stopped being broke. Pondering about the woes of everything is a tiring business, you know? Why not reorient that energy in a more positive manner, and try to foster brilliancy where you see it?”

“So that explains why you dropped Sísí right in the middle of the Gazette looking to do an article on the beat scene?”

August, looking amused, moved to reply, but Cecil continued.

“It was an awful thing to do, man. You didn't even give us a warning.”

—

“I'll see you around," August had given as a cold goodbye.

Cecil and Sísí were standing at the back entrance of the Strawberry Set that rainy winter night, as August informed them to little fanfare that their poetry night had been replaced in favor of Johnny Vallerie's residency.

Sísí, in her usual spirit, seemed nonplussed, but to Cecil the words felt as though August had tossed turpentine over the canvas of his world.

“You know I love the both of you,” August prattled. “But it's Johnny Vallerie— I mean, how can I say no?”

“That's your idea of making the Set a 'happening' place? Booking a geriatric whose biggest hits are about cows and women?”

“Have you heard his song? Doesn't sound like a has-been to me! In fact, it's honestly brilliant.”

Cecil quickly became enamored with the company of his breath and winter-frosted bedroom windowpane and the scenery which seldom changed outside. These depressive sojourns of self-pity and intimate reflection were only broken by his responsibility to Floyd's shop, and Sísí, who had taken to regularly checking in on Cecil following their dismissal.

Her knock, followed by immediate entrance, came as always.

Cecil pulled himself from the window and tried to busy himself with the pile of unfinished manuscripts lying on the floor, attempting to make it look like they were doing anything but acting as mirrors for the snow sunlight which bounced into the room.

Sísí, as always, asked how Cecil's day had been and how it would go. Cecil mentioned that their first band practice since the news of Johnny Vallerie's betrayal was that evening. He did not want to go, he informed her.

Sísí looked Cecil over with a calculating gaze. “Weren't you the one who called others fools?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Cecil retorted.

“It seems incredibly foolish of you to pass up an opportunity like this simply because of a little misfortune.”

“An opportunity? We lost our night because of this band. I told you I didn't want to join it— I can hardly get a word in around that girl without seeing red.”

"So you're just going to leave them to dry like the Cherubs and August have done to you?"

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"That's not the same—"

"It's exactly identical. If you would like to live with your convictions, then you should at least properly tell them you're done."

Cecil fell silent.

"You had such curiosity for her, recently. Where is that now? You told me she knew about Stockhausen. Do you not tell me all the time how you hate how ignorant everyone around here is? It seems to me you can't stand your own reflection.”

“What?”

“Go tell them you're done, or go play with them. Don't waste away here like Narcissus with a pool of tears. You were given good insides, so you don't fall apart.”

He saw Aster at Cherry Lane, gleefully puttering about the keys of the Chamberlain. He didn't even know she played piano.

Who is she—?

—

"I'm sorry for the abruptness, truly," interjected August, petitioning Cecil's eyes. “I should have informed you with more decorum, I now understand that.”

“I'm sure you'd be saying that if we were still playing bars.”

“But you aren't. You and your band are the hottest commodity this little town has ever seen. I mean, only another star could replace Johnny, and it just so happened to be you! Do you not think that's serendipitous? Do you not think it so beyond chance that it almost seems like our reunion was always meant to be?”

“I think you regret dropping us.”

“I will not have you speak to our guest like that, Cecil!” Floyd angrily interjected.

“Cecil, why not consider that there may be value in his offer?” Sísí offered.

“Why are you defending him, Sísí? He screwed you over the hardest!”

“Life is deeper than black and white, Cecil,” she answered. “So many more significant things have died than a beat poetry night, and so many greater things await those who can see a good opportunity for what it is.”

“And that's what you think this is?”

“Would I be here if not?”

Suddenly, a disgruntled cough emanated from Eugene. The congregation turned to look at him. Cecil frowned.

Eugene had been watching the conversations unfold in silence. He remained where he was, watching the participants with irritation. Every so often, when Floyd would speak, his eyes would turn towards him with a look of contemplative fury— as though he wished his eyes could cut him in two. Cecil truly believed that if it were not for Marion's men outside the door, Eugene would've attempted to strangle him there and then.

He shook his head.

“I knew this was pointless,” he grumbled, drawing Cecil's ire and a respectable scowl.

“Why are you even here?!” Cecil barked. “What do you have to do with this?”

Eugene, indignant in being yelled at, rose, causing August to spring to his feet between the two men.

“Gentleman, we're here to talk, not quarrel! Eugene, tell him what you want!”

Eugene sized August up with thorny eyes and then fell back into his seat. He turned in the direction of Cecil but did not meet his eyes.

“The Cherubs would appreciate the consideration of being the opener for your residency,” he said, with all the conviction of a child spitting out a mouthful of soap. Cecil looked at him dumbfounded, then turned to Floyd.

“You're okay with this?”

“They're the— ahem— second biggest rock band in Peppermint Plains, why would I not be?!”

"Floyd, Marion nearly took their heads off last time we saw them.”

“Water under the bridge! Right, Eugene?”

Eugene's eyes lit with fury.

Cecil shook his head adamantly. “No, you're insane. We crashed their interview. They'll kill us if we see them again. I don't want to see them. I want nothing to do with them.”

With this, something seemed to break within Eugene. A desperate gleam entered his eyes, and he exhaled a rough, worried breath as he sat forward, looking Cecil dead in the face.

“Listen— March is falling the fuck apart on me, okay? I know we don't see eye to eye on anything but I'm asking for your help just this once. You don't have to see them. I'll keep them as far away from you as possible, just let them open the bill.”

“Wait, falling apart on you?”

Eugene sighed deeply.

“You don't know, do you? Our meeting with Kyrietone fell through— not surprisingly after you were signed. 'There's an over-saturation of guitar bands', I was told.”

He looked with disbelief at Eugene. Eugene's lip trembled, and he held his gaze fixed upon Cecil's.

“I'm sorry— is that what you want to hear? I'm sorry I kicked you out of the band that way.”

No matter how hard he jostled the handle, the door would not open.

His throat tightened. He had seen it coming for a very long while, yet to finally experience it was worse than he had ever imagined.

Eugene finally emerged from the other side of the door.

They had grown distant. The last few practices mostly involved him in argument with the other members, none more than March.

It seemed they had completely opposing ideas of where to take the band, and they were now reaching the point where their differences were too distant to ever hope to reconcile.

"Go on, Cecil," Eugene had started quietly.

"What is this, Eugene?" he asked.

"You know what it is. Just go home."

“No, tell me.”

—

“What are you gonna buy with your earnings, first?” chuckled March. He was pushed up against the van's metal interior, resting in an uncomfortable position as it sped along the bumpy road.

Cecil scoffed, and smiled slightly. “I don't care about that.”

“You don't care about it? Man, it's money! Besides the music, what else is there to do it for?”

“I don't know, but it's not that,” quipped Cecil.

—

“The band has decided it's best to part ways with you.”

“You mean you decided.”

“Cecil, I don't want it to be like this.”

“No, fuck you man. I knew it, I fucking knew you were a scumbag, the second March brought you in—”

Eugene grew silent, stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

“You're manager for a month and you think you run the fucking show—”

Eugene suddenly snatched Cecil by the collar.

“I'm trying to make this easy, Cecil. Nobody wants a fucking rock band with a pianist in it— I've tried to make this clear. I've tried to be courteous about it but you can't seem to get it through your head that nobody wants you around! They don't want to be told what to do, and you're too fucking serious, man! They're trying to go places and you're just stuck in your head!”

—

Arthur slipped behind Cecil, rushing over to March where he threw an arm around his shoulder. The three boys looked— grinned— at the strong-jawed boy before them.

“You figure he's it?” Arthur exclaimed. “Cortier, what kinda name is that?”

Cecil nodded. “Better bassist than I've ever seen.”

“Plus, he's starting to grow a beard! We're going to look so fucking cool with you,” March grinned, pulling Cortier into the group.

“Gear up boys, we're gonna go to the top!”

—

“Is that it, Cecil? Is that all your little heart can manage?”

The shadows elongated like statues in his room.

“You can't let down the one important thing that has happened to you.”

—

In similar fashion to how one looks with great discomfort upon some close relation dying, Cecil watched Eugene. His pathetic, hollow apologies rang forth. Floyd gushed in approval, backing up his sniveling decree with endorsements of every facet of his character.

“People change!”

“See it from his side!”

They all fell deaf on Cecil's ears.

The hate he expected to feel was absent.

Sísí, his eternal voice of reason, sat beside the shriveled man, like gold bullion tipping the scales of judgment. For all the self-importance and self-assuredness which had given his plume such volume, he was so small when stripped of it all.

He was nothing, and Cecil shivered.

It was nothing like he had ever imagined— the moment he finally stood above him. His revenge arrived aborted, weak, and entirely unsatisfactory. He felt pity.

“You won't see them, okay?” Eugene proclaimed. “I'll keep them away from you. We'll even put in a good word for the record.”

Floyd, now animated, was practically in Cecil's face protesting.

"Cecil, what would Miss Aster think if you said no?!”

Cecil snarled.

And yet, the image of Aster's disappointed expression came to him like a fire tearing through the night.

—

Sísí (cackling): Watch how it burns, Cecil! There can't be fire without fuel!

Cecil: Say it straight, Sísí. I can't always keep up with your riddles.

Sísí: Your curiosity— you can't deny it.

Cecil: The only curiosity is in how someone can be so endlessly unpleasant.

Sísí: There are many who can say the same about you.

Cecil (irritated): She stormed into their fucking interview!

Sísí (gleefully): Because it was necessary!

Cecil: How was that necessary? I'm trying to get away from them and she's only bringing me fucking closer!

Sísí (solemnly): Consider it is meant to be that way.

Cecil: Sísí.

Sísí: Your desire for separation only draws you nearer to that which you wish to part from.

The fire licks the carbon in the air, ushering black smoke which obfuscates the stars in the sky. Cecil, who has no peace in the dark, lies awake in bed, his brain running marathon paces.

Sísí (impishly): Just ask her, Cecil.

Cecil: Who are you?

Aster: …

Cecil: Why do you speak the way you do?

Aster: ...

Cecil: Why do you dress the way you do?

Aster: ...

Cecil: Why have you not abandoned me?

He thought pitifully of his own misfortunes and how pathetic he must have looked each time the news was given to him— you aren't worth enough to put our efforts into.

He drew a sharp breath. Floyd and Eugene, who had devolved into bickering, grew still. Sísí smiled softly.

“I don't want to see them. If you promise me that, I'll do it.”

A shriek reminiscent of an animal dying came forth from Floyd and brought Marion's men running in as held Cecil in an embrace.

“Cecil, I owe you the world! I thought this was going to be impossible! I had my resignation all drafted up!”

August, mirroring Sísí's smoldering glee, arose.

“From the bottom of my heart, I am sorry— and I am honored for my venue to serve you.”

He clasped Cecil's hand, who frowned and looked away.

August then stood straight and faced sharply to the side.

"Now, with that accounted for— I have not been able to take my eye off of that corner of your store since I got here, Floyd," he said, pointing in the direction of the poetry corner.

Floyd's exuberant smile vanished.

“What?” he cackled, double-taking. "Pay no attention to that! I'll have the men dispose of it instantly.”

August wrinkled his brow.

"Why's that? I think it's wonderful!" he said with a pouty tone.

"Someone has a head on their shoulders," cooed Sísí.

"Wonderful?!" yelled Floyd."It's a pestilence upon this shop! A scourge! It's the bubonic plague!" he screamed, going red.

August was undeterred, and began walking over to it.

Floyd's eyes went wide.

“Mr. Oakley, please pay no attention to this INVASION.”

Hearing the demented cries, the entire shop stopped. Marion's men had broken from their leisure, people were looking inside from the sidewalk.

“This absolute usurper— this Judas, this Ides of March,” he shrieked, eyes bulging as he listed every blight Sísí's construction had wrought upon the world. Sísí could not get enough of it it seemed, as her smile grew in proportion to Floyd's swelling volume.

"You, with the leather!" he at last belted, pointing to one of Marion's men. "Destroy it! Now, annihilate!”

The man went pale.

He looked at Sísí, then to Floyd. Then shook his head.

"No, I'm sorry Mr. Childress. I don't think I'm going to be responsible for that," he said.

The glint left Floyd's eyes.

“My boss isn't here and we have union protections—”

Floyd screamed incoherently, throwing his head back. The man ran outside.

"He's finally gone mad!" exclaimed Sísí, drawing a white gloved hand to her mouth.

Floyd frantically snatched several magazines from beside the register and bundled them together. "Let me know the details," Eugene murmured angrily to August as he made his hasty departure. Floyd had now wandered over in his madness to the poetry corner, holding the bouquet of magazines high above his head.

"Floyd, what are you doing," Cecil called with alarm.

"Killing the beast!" he shouted, procuring a lighter.

"Floyd!"

Cecil had jumped from the chair and began running to restrain him.

"Do it!" clamored Sísí.

"It ends now!" he bellowed.

"One consideration before the pyre!" interrupted August.

Floyd and Cecil turned around to face him.

"In return for not sending it up in flames, how would you instead like to have the Love You Forevers play every night of the month?"

The bouquet fell to the floor.

"We can't play every night,” Cecil said in disbelief.

“Every night?” murmured Floyd.

“Every night.”

“Floyd, we can't do that! We have to record the album!”

“I can't let this stand, August, it's so unsightly,” Floyd weakly protested.

“Floyd, my darling. Your shop is closed half the week now due to the commotion. Where's the harm in letting Sísí here host some poetry at night?”

“Floyd, we cannot play for a month straight.”

“Floyd, think of the ring your name would have— proprietor of not only the greatest band in the land, the greatest record shop— but also the most radiant beacon of artistry Peppermint Plains has ever set its eyes on.”

Sísí, standing by the construction, twirled the potpourri lights around her throat, and smiled, pulling them taught.

“Floyd, are you someone who makes history, or is made history?”