The Q

by Beth Brower

Quincy looked back at the violin, stubbornly tempted not to play a note. She despised having people force her in any direction, even if it was one in which she wished to go. But, biting the side of her lip, Quincy felt her desire to touch the instrument sabotage her determination to resist. She had never held an instrument of real quality, and Quincy St. Claire loved quality.

“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.”

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

“I always feel I might be my best self in the fall; I wish to pen my best essays, listen to the purest music, taste the best fruit I can find.”

“Come to my house Saturday for tea.” “Can’t,” responded Quincy. “I’m busy avoiding human connection.”

But when I saw the two of you and the look on his face, I was ready to die a happy death. Bury me now, for life could not get better, nor more surprising.”