but too quick,
like a reflex,
like someone,
maybe a therapist,
has asked that question before.
“You think I’m a sellout,” I tell him.
“You think I don’t care about the music.”
This he doesn’t deny,
just shoves his hands deeper
into his pockets,
slows his pace,
glares harder at the wooden slats
in front of his feet.
“So if I’m a sellout,”
I continue, slowly enough
that Krista can translate,
“then why did we play
all those songs I wrote?
Why were they good enough,
when I wasn’t?”
Mickey glares at her.
“I never said he wasn’t good enough.”
“Don’t talk to me,” Krista tells Mickey.
“Talk to Logan.”
He stops short and turns to her.
“Okay, L—”
My name catches on his tongue.
“You were good.
You were amazing.
You took my fucking breath away.”