The Song Remains the Same

by Allison Winn Scotch

and flitted about the art world, my deals, my acumen, as a spotlight. Yes, I think, this is where I’ll finally uncover her, glimpse the road map to the new Nell, the hint of who I could have been all along. I flatten my hair with my palms and wonder if it doesn’t feel four inches too long for me. Why I wore it so plainly—straight, middle part—when something else might have brought out the softness of my jaw, illuminated my heart-shaped face. I push the wrinkles out of my gray sleeveless dress—my closet is a study on the palette of neutral—and exhale. Peter hires a town car, and my mother, wearing a perfume that reminds me of patchouli, and Tate, wearing a blazer and oxford shirt with one button too many undone, accompany us down there. Truthfully, I’m relieved for the company, even if it means I have to watch Tate damply kiss my mother, and then see her wipe her scarlet lipstick stain off his mouth. They’re like teenagers, these two, straight out of a sitcom. They have the laugh track, dammit! But I tolerate their company all the same. The simple truth is that with the chaos dying down and more quiet space to fill, Peter and I have run out of things to talk about, and these two help soak up the still air. Of course there are discussions to be had, but mostly he and I shuffle around each other and turn the TV louder when things shift from silent to awkward. Last night, after he got home from the gym, he pulled me to the piano bench and asked if I might want to play—for him,...

about