The Q

by Beth Brower

“It is one of the great arts of the human soul,” Ezekiel said to himself. Her hand on the door, Quincy shifted and looked back at her uncle’s profile. “What is?” “Staying with someone. Companionship is one of the great arts of the human soul.”

Hearing her own words given back so calmly—flat and chilled—caused Quincy to very nearly regret insulting him to his face.

“Because dreams are what stretch you to find more, to be a better person, if you will.”

I know my grandmother was the happiest woman I’ve ever known, and she was poor enough to keep the dirt sweepings in her cottage in case she, or anybody else, might need them someday. So, then, what did she have that I don’t?”

The sound of the violin was all the humanity that Quincy could stand.

His laugh was a silver sound, smooth, exposing much more confidence than Quincy would have guessed.

his words sounded like a dictionary entry that had more than one meaning.

“But the poetry.” He waved his hand over the spectacle below. “Isn’t that what you love?” “I love the perfection, Arch, not the poetry.” As he gathered his things, Quincy heard him mutter that perfection and poetry were often the same thing.

His words carried such earnestness that it forced Quincy to pull out the file of honest emotion from the back of her mind, and it almost fell open.

“Only that I believe”—Arch lifted his shoulders, and the look on his face was so unguarded Quincy surprised herself by listening—“that each one of us has times when what we need most is someone who is willing to sit quietly by, waiting for us. Not interfering, just being.”

After some time, Fisher said, “Per aspera ad astra.” Quincy turned towards him. “What’s that?” “Latin. It means to the stars through difficulties.”

“Did Fisher tell you to come?” Quincy said, her voice sounding so unlike itself—sounding yearning. “No,” Arch replied. Then he shook his head as confirmation, as if it were an important truth she needed to know two ways. “But I knew this was his train.” “You missed him.” “I didn’t come for him. I came for you.” His words went unanswered. They were too real for her. And Quincy could only pay attention to how her boots felt on her feet in that exact moment and how Fisher’s absence felt in her chest. The boots were a little snug, wet from the puddles of the midnight rain. The absence in her chest felt too vast for admission.

“There are few things more tedious than a friend who will not graciously receive.”

“Do you know in the evening, when the street lamps begin to light all over Rhysdon but the daylight hasn’t yet faded, and something in you wishes it could be like that forever? Well, that was how it was being with Jack.