#so the ADA goes to Bat Country.

[rahleeyah]

Did somebody ask for Nick Amaro punching Elliot Stabler in the face?

It's nice to be back in New York. He wishes it was under different circumstances - Christ does he wish - but he missed the city. LA isn't the same. Zara's there, and Gil's in San Diego, and they have both grown so much in the last five years and he wouldn't have missed that for anything, but he does wish, sometimes, that they could have stayed at home. In New York. 

He's come to bury his mother and clean out her apartment. Before that gets started, though, he's got some faces he wants to see. He doesn't know for sure if they'll still be there, doesn't know what he'll find, but he knows he has to look, and in his heart he believes that as long as Liv is still alive and in possession of two good legs, she'll be at SVU. That place, it's more than just a job, to her. It's a calling. She's a goddamn crusader. 

For a minute he stands looking up at the station, weighing whether or not he wants to go in. Whether or not he wants to know what's happened to Barba, and Carisi, and Fin, and Rollins. Shit. Rollins. No way is she still there, he thinks. 

He could have called. Should have called. Friends for life, he and Liv had promised each other, and they are, and they will be, but not the kind of friends who call each other and gab on the phone on Saturday afternoons. The kind of friends who'll take a bullet for each other, who'll drop everything and fly to the other side of the country after five years of no contact, if that's what they need. But not Facebook friends. It's just not in their DNA. They're bound by blood now; they don't need a phone call. 

So he takes a deep breath and walks into the station, gets on the elevator behind some asshole in a flashy suit like the kind Barba used to wear, and the guy is talking on his phone but he's pressed the button for SVU so Nick can't escape him, just has to stand there and listen. 

"I'm not asking, I'm telling," the guy says. "why? 'Cause I'm your father, that's why." 

The guy's tone and the words coming out of his mouth remind Nick forcefully of his own father, and that makes him hate this man he doesn't even know. The door slides open and Nick goes to step out but the guy must not have registered he's there; the guy almost steps on him on his way out of the elevator and doesn't even apologize, just hangs up his phone and goes heading towards SVU and Nick is once again following him. His knee never healed right and Nick isn't as quick as he used to be, and the guy gets further and further ahead of him. 

"She here?" The guy calls to a young female detective sitting at one of the desks. The squad room looks completely different, now, and for a second Nick feels like all the breath has just been knocked out of him. The girl says yeah, go on back, and the suit heads for Liv's office. Must be the ADA, Nick thinks. And shit, this is weird. It's like walking into his childhood home and seeing another family living there. It's like finding out there's no such thing as home, really. Like whatever home is, one day you stop belonging there. 

"Help you?" The girl calls to him. 

"Yeah," he says. It's too late to pretend he's not here. There's no sign of Rollins, or Fin, or Liv, but he's gonna do what he came here to do. 

"Is Benson around?"

The girl gives him an appraising look.

"Who's asking?"

Before he can answer, a voice is calling out behind him. 

"Nick?"

He turns, and there she is. Amanda Rollins. Still blonde, still beautiful, and shit, Carisi is standing right beside her. 

"Amanda," he says, and in the next second she's running at him, flinging her arms around him. They hit so hard he could have picked her clean up and spun her around, if it weren't for his bad knee. As it is he nearly goes flying, but he catches himself, and holds on to her tight. He's missed her, more than he wants to admit. 

"Oh, my God," she says as she pulls back. "It's so good to see you. You look good."

"Yeah," he says. "So do you." 

And she does, and he wishes that didn't hurt. 

"Carisi," he says next, and holds his hand out for a shake. Carisi’s hair has gone grey, and his suit is too flash for a cop, but he’s still Carisi, and he bats Nick’s hand away, and pulls him in for a hug.

“If we’d known you were coming we’d have gotten a cake or something,” Carisi says as they part.

“I wasn’t sure you guys would even still be here,” Nick tells them. “Kinda wanted it to be a surprise. Is Liv around?” 

As if in answer to his question the door to the Captain’s office opens behind them, and she comes walking out, with the suit hot on her heels. 

She stops dead in her tracks when she sees him, and shit, he just about stops breathing. That woman; she’s like a sister to him. Better than a sister; he trusts her more than his own blood. A thousand memories flash through his mind. The angry Liv he’d first met, calling him Serpico and looking at him like she was certain he wouldn’t last a week. Remember when you asked me about my father, and I told you it was a long story? It’s not that long. Standing beside her on the porch at the beach house, her clothes ripped and burned, her body bruised, her eyes wild. Liv’s eyes in the rearview mirror, Lewis’s blood sprayed across her face. Liv’s hands on him, while the EMTs wheeled him away after Johnny D shot him. Friends for life, Nick Amaro. 

Her hair is longer, and her face is more lined, but she’s still so goddamn gorgeous. She covers her heart with her hand, and he grins, and they both start to move, then, not running, but walking straight towards each other, determined, no one else in the world but them, in that moment, and the next thing he knows he’s got his arms wrapped around her, and she’s holding him so tight it almost hurts.

“Nick,” she whispers his name shakily, and he laughs, because he can tell she’s about to cry and shit he is, too. 

“Good to see ya, Liv,” he manages to choke out, and when he pulls back she reaches up and touches his face, her dark eyes searching his. She doesn’t have to say it; he knows she’s wondering if he’s ok, and he hopes she finds the answer in his face. Truth is, he’s doing better now than he was five years ago. Better than ten years ago. He’s settled. He’s happy. He hopes she is, too. 

“You gonna introduce me to your friend?”

This from the suit. The sound of his voice shatters the moment, and Liv pulls away, and Nick is thinking he really, really hates this guy. This guy with his easy arrogance, this guy whose voice, whose posture, whose belligerent expression reveals a possessiveness towards Liv that Nick doesn’t like, not one bit. Liv laughs and steps back from him but Nick keeps his hand resting at the small of her back. There’s a petulant part of his heart that wants this guy, whoever he is, to see Nick touching her. To know that he’s allowed to, that she’ll let him, that whatever problem the suit may have Liv cares about Nick. 

“Yeah,” Liv says, and a little bit of Nick’s anger fades, because she sounds happy. 

“This is Nick Amaro, my old partner.” He can hear the grin in her voice. “Nick, this is Elliot Stabler.”

It’s not something he can control. It comes over him so suddenly, so viciously; he always thought that when people talking about seeing red they were just exaggerating. He always thought people had more control over themselves than that. But Liv says that name, and damn if he doesn’t see red.

“Elliot Stabler?” he says. 

“Yeah,” Stabler answers, taking a step forward, and maybe he’s about to ask Nick if he’s got a problem with that, but he never gets the chance.

Stabler. The one who left her. The one who was the reason she was so standoffish, with Nick. The reason she was so angry all the damn time, walking around nursing a broken heart and letting it get her into trouble. The one with the anger issues and the dinged up service record that nearly derailed her whole career. The one with the wife at home, while Liv was half in love with him - Nick isn’t supposed to know that part, but he does. And anybody who could do that to Liv, who could hurt her so bad, treat her like she was second class, disposable, anybody who could stand there and act like he had a right to be by her side after all the shit he put her through, anybody like that, they’re gonna get what’s coming to them, courtesy of Nick Amaro. It’s been ten years since Stabler walked out on her, but however he came back, whatever the reason is for him standing here right now, Nick doesn’t give a single shit. He knows Liv and he knows she would never tell this guy just how bad he hurt her, just how much she lost when he left, knows she’s got a good heart and she’ll forgive the people she loves. She won’t hold this asshole accountable.

Nick, on the other hand, has no qualms about it. 

“Ok,” Nick says, and then before anyone can so much as take a breath, he hauls off and punches that smug son of a bitch right in the mouth, as hard as he can. And shit, but it feels good. 

[dustedmagazine]

Dust, Volume 7, Number 8

Big Thief

Our August collection of short reviews contains more big names than usual with singles from Big Thief and Dry Cleaning, a digital compilation from Thou, live music from Obits and a side project from members of the Bats and the Clean. Never fear, there are obscurities as well, including an improv guitar player even Bill Meyer had hardly heard of, a Norwegian emo artist in love with Texas and a death metal outfit verging into psychedelia. Our writers, this time including Tim Clarke, Bill Meyer, Jennifer Kelly, Ian Mathers, Chris Liberato and Jonathan Shaw, like what they like, big or small, hyped or unknown. We hope you’ll like some of it, too.   

Marc Barreca — The Sleeper Awakes (Scissor Tail)

The Sleeper Wakes by Marc Barreca

Odd connections abound here. One might not expect the usually acoustic-oriented Scissor Tail Recordings to make a vinyl reissue of an electronic ambient music cassette from 1986, any more than one would expect its maker to currently earn his crust as a bankruptcy judge. So, let’s just shed those expectations and get to listening. Unlike so many lower profile electronic recordings from the 1980s, which seemed targeted for a space next to the cash register of a new age bookstore, this album offers a profusion of mysteries that compound the closer you listen to them. It’s not at all obvious what sounds Barreca fed into his Akai sampler. Japanese folk music? Church chimes? A log drum jam? Tugboat engines? One hears hints of such sounds, but they’ve been warped and dredged in a thin coat of murk, so that the predominant experience is one of feeling like you’re dreaming, even if your eyes are wide open.

Bill Meyer

Big Thief — “Little Things” / “Sparrow” (4AD)

Little Things/Sparrow by Big Thief

Who knows how much more music Big Thief might have released in the last 18 months if the pandemic hadn’t tripped them up? Given the creative momentum generated by 2019’s UFOF and Two Hands, it’s fair to assume the band have plenty of music waiting in the wings. “Little Things” and “Sparrow” arrive with no sign of a new album on the horizon, so are probably being released to promote Big Thief’s upcoming US and European tour. Both songs clock in at around five minutes and handle musical repetition in different satisfying ways. Reminiscent of Fleetwood Mac’s “Everything,” but hyped up on caffeine, “Little Things” feels like an exciting new direction for the band. It cycles through its whirlpooling, modulated acoustic guitar over and over, the frantic little sequence of chords never changing; the interest comes from the ways in which the rest of the instruments bob and weave in the ever-shifting, psychedelic mix. “Sparrow” is a more traditional Big Thief song, sparse and sad. Its melancholic sway is enlivened by some beautiful wavering vocal harmonies as Adrianne Lenker paints a picture of a Garden of Eden populated by sparrows, owls and eagles, culminating in Adam blaming Eve for humankind’s fall from grace.

Tim Clarke

Simão Costa — Beat Without Byte: (Un)Learning Machine (Cipsela)

Beat With Out Byte by Simão Costa

Piano preparation often makes use of modest resources — bolts and combs, strings or maybe just a raincoat tossed into the instrument’s innards. By contrast, Simão Costa’s set-up looks like took all of the entries in a robotics assembly competition and set them to work agitating a snarl of cables that met the pirated telecommunication requirements for an especially crowded favela. But whether it’s twitching motors or Costa’s own hands doing the work, the sounds that come out of his sound remarkably rich and cohesive. He stirs drifting hums, metallic sonorities, and stomping rhythms into a bracingly immediate sonic onslaught.

Bill Meyer

Cots — Disturbing Body (Boiled)

Disturbing Body by Cots

Disturbing Body is the low-key debut album by Montreal-based musician Steph Yates, who enlisted Sandro Perri to produce. Where the songs are pared back to mostly just vocals and peppy major-seventh chords on nylon-string guitar — such as “Bitter Part of the Fruit” and “Midnight at the Station” — comparisons with bossa-nova classics such as “The Girl From Ipanema” inevitably arise. Where the tempo is slower, the chord voicings are less sun-dappled, and Perri’s arrangements call upon a wider palette of instrumental colors, the songs venture into more interesting terrain, calling to mind a less haunted Broadcast. There’s an eerie sway to the opening title track, backed by rich piano chords and clattering cymbal textures. Fender Rhodes and the light clack of a rhythm track give “Inertia of a Dream” an uneasy momentum. And forlorn trumpet, percussion and piano situate “Last Sip” at closing time in a forgotten jazz club. There’s something evasive yet subtly intoxicating at work here, the album’s ten songs breezing past in half an hour, leaving plenty of unanswered questions in their wake.

Tim Clarke

Dry Cleaning — “Bug Eggs” / “Tony Speaks!” (4AD)

Bug Eggs/Tony Speaks! by Dry Cleaning

A few months on from the release of their excellent debut album, New Long Leg, Dry Cleaning have put out two more songs from the same sessions, which are featured as bonus tracks on the Japanese edition. For a band whose unique appeal is mostly attributed to Florence Shaw’s surreal lyrics and deadpan delivery, it’s heartening to hear further evidence that it’s the complete cocktail of musical ingredients — Shaw plus Tom Dowse’s inventive guitar, Lewis Maynard’s satisfyingly thick bass, and Nick Buxton’s driving drums — that alchemizes into their winning sound. The verse guitar chords of “Bug Eggs” are naggingly similar to New Long Leg’s “More Big Birds,” while the instrumental chorus has a yearning feel akin to album highlight “Her Hippo.” Maynard’s bass tone on “Tony Speaks!” is absolutely filthy, swallowing up most of the mix until Dowse’s guitar bares its teeth in a swarm of squalling wah-wah, while Shaw’s lyrics muse upon the decline of heavy industry, the environment, and crisps.

Tim Clarke

Flight Mode — TX, ’98 (Sound As Language)

TX, '98 by Flight Mode

In 1998, well before he started Little Hands of Asphalt, Sjur Lyseid spent a year in Texas at the height of the emo wave, skateboarding and going to house shows and listening to the Get Up Kids. TX, ’98 is the Norwegian’s tribute to that coming of age experience, the giddy euphorias of mid-teenage freedom filtered through bittersweet subsequent experience. “Sixteen” is the banger, all crunchy, twitchy exhilarating guitars and vulnerable pop tunefulness, its clangor breaking for wistful reminiscence, but “Fossil Fuel” waxes lyrical, its guitar riffs splintering into radiant shards, its lyrics capturing those youthful years when anything seems possible and also, somehow, the later recognition that perhaps it isn’t. It’s an interesting tension between the now-is-everything hedonism of adolescence and the rueful remembering of adulthood, encapsulate in a chorus that goes, “Well wait and see if there’s no more history/and just defend the present tense.”

Jennifer Kelly

Drew Gardner— S-T (Eiderdown Records)

S/T by Drew Gardner

Drew Gardner has been popping up all over lately, on Elkhorn’s snowed in acoustic jam Storm Sessions and the electrified follow-up Sun Cycle and as one of Jeffrey Alexander’s Heavy Lidders. Here, it’s just him and his guitar plus a like-minded rhythm section (that’s Ryan Jewell on drums and Garcia Peoples’ Andy Cush on bass), spinning off dreamy, folk-into-interstellar-journeys like “Calyx” and “Kelp Highway.” Gardner puts some muscle into some of his grooves, running close to Chris Forsyth’s wide-angle electric boogie in “Bird Food.” “The Road to Eastern Garden,” though, is pure limpid transcendence, Buddhist monastery bells jangling as Gardner’s warm, inquiring melodic line intersects with rubbery bends on bass. Give this one a little time to sit, but don’t miss it.

Jennifer Kelly

Hearth — Melt (Clean Feed)

Melt by Hearth

This pan-European quartet’s name suggests domesticity, but the fact that none of its members lives in the country of their birth probably says more about the breadth of their music. The closest geographic point of reference for the sounds that pianist Kaja Draksler, trumpeter Susana Santos Silva, and saxophonists Ada Rave and Mette Rasmussen’s make together would be Chicago’s south side. Their dynamic blend of angular structures, extended instrumental techniques, and obscurely theatrical enactments brings to mind the Art Ensemble of Chicago, even though the sounds on this concert-length recording rarely echo the AEC’s. But it is similarly charged with mystery and collective identity.

Bill Meyer

Klaus Lang / Konus Quartett — Drei Allmenden (Cubus)

Drei Allmenden (translation: Three Commons) treats the act of commission as an opportunity to create common cause. For composer and keyboardist Klaus Lang, this is a chance to push back against a long trend of separation and stratification, with musicians bound to realize the composer’s whim, no matter the cost. Invoking works from the 16th century, he penned something simple, flexible and open to embellishment. Then he pitched in with Konus Quartett, a Swiss saxophone ensemble, to get the job done. The three-part piece, which lasts 43 sublime minutes, amply rewards the submersion of ego. Lang’s slowly morphing harmonium drones and Konus’ long reed tones sound like one instrument, enriched by tendrils of sound that rise up and then sink back into the music’s body.

Bill Meyer

Lynch, Moore, Riley — Secant / Tangent (dx/dy)

Secant | Tangent by Sue Lynch, N.O. Moore, Crystabel Riley

Electric guitarist N.O. Moore is barely known in these parts. I’ve only heard him on one album with Eddie Prévost a couple years back, and the other two musicians, not at all. But on the strength of this robust performance, which was recorded at London’s Icklectick venue, it would be a loss to keep it that way. They combine acoustic sounds with electronics, courtesy of guitar effects and amplification, in an exceedingly natural fashion. Each musician also gets into the other’s business in ways that correspond to the one spicy suggestion made by one cook that elevates another’s dish to the next level. Susan Lynch’s clarinet and flute compliment Moore’s radiophonic/feedback sounds like two flashes of lightning illuminating the same dark cloud, and her vigorously pecking saxophone attack mixes with Crystabel’s cascading beats like idiosyncratically tuned drums. This is one of the first albums to be released on Moore’s dx/dy label; keep your eye out for more.

Bill Meyer

Maco Sica / Hamid Drake Tatsu Aoki & Thymme Jones—Ourania (Feeding Tube)

OURANIA by Mako Sica / Hamid Drake featuring Tatsu Aoki & Thymme Jones

Ourania is named for the muse associated with astronomy in Greek mythology, and the album has an aim for the stars quality. In 2020, Chicago’s Mako Sica lost not only the chance to play concerts, but one third of its number. Core members Brent Fuscaldo (electric bass, voice, harmonica, percussion) and Przemyslaw Krys Drazek (electric trumpet, electric guitar, mandolin) could have just hunkered down with their respective TV sets. Instead, they booked themselves three other musicians who make rising above circumstances a core practice. The duo convened at Electrical Audio with Hamid Drake (drums, percussion, Tatsu Aoki (upright bass, shamisen), and Thymme Jones (piano, organ, balloon, trumpet, voice, recorder, percussion), rolled tape for a couple hours, and walked out with this album. The 85 minute-long recording (edited to about half that length on vinyl, but the LP comes with a download card) exudes a vibe of calm, even beatitude, with twin trumpets and Fuscaldo’s echo-laden, nearly word-free vocals weaving though a sequence of patient grooves like migrational birds on the glide.

Bill Meyer

Mar Caribe — Hymn of the Mar Caribe (Mar Caribe)

Hymn of the Mar Caribe b/w Rondo for Unemployment by mar caribe

Some musicians burn to make something new; others generate attention-getting sounds designed to maximize the potential of their other earning activities; and others, well, they just want you to sway along with their version of the good sounds. Mar Caribe falls into that last category. This Chicago-based instrumental ensemble has spent most of the last decade maintaining a robust performance schedule, and it would seem that recording is pretty much an afterthought; a photo of the test pressing for this 7” was posted in May 2019, but the release show didn’t happen until August 2021. Sure, COVID can be blamed for part of the delay, but one suspects that mostly, these guys just want to play, and they didn’t bother to stuff the singles in the sleeves until they knew when they’d next be leaning over a merch table. The titular suspends anthemic brass and pedal steel over a swinging double bass cadence, and if there was a moment during the night when the band invited the audience to pledge allegiance to their favorite drink, this is what they’d be playing while they asked. Guitars lead on the flip side, whose busy twists and turns belie the implied laziness of the title, “Rondo For Unemployment.”

Bill Meyer

Mint Julep — In a Deep and Dreamless Sleep (Western Vinyl)

In A Deep And Dreamless Sleep by Mint Julep

These songs traverse a hazy, dreamlike space, diffusing dance beats, dream-y vocals and synth pulses into inchoate sensation that nonetheless retains enough rhythmic propulsion to keep your heart rate up. “A Rising Sun” filters jangly guitar and bass through a sizzle of static, letting tambourine thump gently somewhere off camera, as voices soothe and reassure. “Mirage” pounds a four-on-the-floor, but quietly, angelically, like a disco visited through astral projection or maybe a really rave-y iteration of heaven. There’s an ominous undercurrent to “Longshore Drift,” in its growly, sub-bass-y hum, but glittering bits of synth sprinkle over like fairy dust. This is indefinitely gorgeous stuff, ethereal but surprisingly energizing. Dance or drift, take your pick.

Jennifer Kelly

Monocot — Directions We Know (Feeding Tube)

Direction We Know by Monocot

Directions We Know is an LP of free-form freak-outs generated by an instrumental duo that includes one musician who you might expect to perpetuate such a ruckus, and one that you might not. The more likely character is drummer Jayson Gerycz, who may be known for keeping time with the Cloud Nothings, but has shown a willingness to wax colorizing in the company of Anthony Pasquarosa, Jen Powers and Matthew Rolin. The happy surprise is Rosali Middleman, whose singer-songwriter efforts have kept her guitar playing firmly in service of her songs. She doesn’t exactly abandon lyricism in Monocot, but the tunes serve as launching ramps for exuberant lunges into the realm of voltage-saturated sound. On “Ruby Throated,” the first of the record’s four extended jams, Middleman lofts rippling peals over a near-boil of  drums and churning loops. By the time you get to “Multidimensional Solutions,” the last and longest track, her wah-wah-dipped streams of sound have taken on a blackened quality, as though her overheating tubes have burned every note.

Bill Meyer

Obits — Die at the Zoo (Outer Battery)

Die At The Zoo by Obits

Few aughts rock bands held more promise than Obits. The four-piece headed by Hot Snakes’ Rick Froberg and Edsel’s Sohrab Habibion emerged in 2005 with a stinging, stripped-back, blues-touched sound. Froberg’s feral snarl rode a surfy, twitchy amplified onslaught, that was, by 2012 a finely tuned machine. I caught one of the live shows following Moody, Standard and Poor at small club in Northampton the same year this was recorded (so small that I was sitting on a couch next to Froberg, oblivious, for 20 minutes before the show), and what struck me was how well the band played together. The records sound chaotic, and that was certainly there in performance, but the cuts and stops were perfect, the surfy instrumental breaks (“New August”) absolutely in tune. At the time this set was recorded in the Brisbane punk landmark known as the Zoo, the band was near the peak of its considerable powers—and regrettably near the end of its run. Die at the Zoo is reasonably well recorded, rough enough to capture the band’s raucous energy, skilled enough so you can understand the words and hear all the parts. It hits all the highlights, blistering early cuts like “Widow of My Dreams,” and “Pine On,” the blues cover “Milk Cow Blues,” and later, slightly more melodic ragers like “Everything Looks Better in the Morning” and “You Gotta Lose.” The guitar work is particularly sharp throughout, its straight-on chug breaking into fiery blues licks and surfy whammy explosions. It’s a poignant reminder of a time when American rock bands played ferocious shows halfway across the world (or anywhere) as a matter of course and a fitting eulogy for Obits.

Jennifer Kelly

A Place To Bury Strangers — Hologram (Dedstrange)

Hologram EP by A Place To Bury Strangers

A Place To Bury Strangers returns with a new rhythm section and renewed focus on the elements that made its version of revivalism the loudest if not brashest of the New York aughties. Sarah and John Fedowitz on drums and bass join Oliver Ackerman on the five track EP Hologram which is the most concise and vital APTBS release for a while. For all the criticism of copyism thrown at the band since their early days, APTBS has always been as much about Ackerman’s production skills and feel for texture as musical originality and the songs on Hologram sound fantastic at volume. Beneath the sonic onslaught of fuzz and reverb, not a brick is misplaced in this intricately constructed sonic wall. True “I Might Have” is pure Jesus & Mary Chain and “In My Hive” a Wax Trax take on Spector but Hologram is an endorphin rush of guitar driven noise bound to make one forget the world, if only for a while.

Andrew Forell

Praises — EP4 (Hand Drawn Dracula)

Jesse Crowe’s work as Praises has been ongoing since 2014, but has shifted in tone, instrumentation and emphasis since then. While the first two EPs have more of a full, rock band feel, the third one and 2018’s full-length In This Year: Ten of Swords took things in a more electronic, sometimes industrial direction. It was an even better fit for the rest, probing creativity evident in Praises’ work, and 3/4s of the new EP4 are in a pleasingly similar vein. The echoing, ringing denunciations of “We Let Go” and “A World on Fire” are fine examples of Praises’ existing strengths, but the opening “Apples for My Love” is immediately captivating in a very different way. Gauzy and rapturous, it’s a reverie that keeps the satisfying textural detail of the other songs but turns them to different ends. It’s not something that was missing from Crowe’s work before — again, the other tracks here are also very good — but a reminder that what Praises has shown before is not the extent of what they can do.

Ian Mathers

The Sundae Painters — The First SP Single (Leather Jacket)

“This is a supergroup, is it not?” someone asked the Sundae Painters bassist Paul Kean on social media last year, to which he responded, “Some may choose that title. We prefer superglue.” Kaye Woodward, his wife and longtime bandmate in both The Bats and Minisnap, takes the lead vocal on “Thin Air,” one of the pair of A-sides found on their new band’s debut seven-inch. From the outset, Kean’s unmistakable bass playing and Hamish Kilgour’s (The Clean/Mad Scene) drumming lock into a psychedelic march, with the other instruments weaving like kites above, vying for position on the same breeze. “You fight your way down/You fight your way up/You wait for the dust to settle,” Woodward sings. A few gentle strums cut their way through the parade, and a guitar calls out gull-like from above, before everything trails off as if something potent has just kicked in. On the flip side, “Aversion” has an old friend-like familiarity to it, soundwise (if not lengthwise) sitting somewhere between VU’s “The Gift” and “Sister Ray.” Things begin a little stand-offish, though, like you’ve interrupted a guitar pontificating to a rapt audience — it turns its head to look you over, falling momentarily silent, before picking right back up where it left off. Kilgour’s spoken vocals join the conversation, as the song builds towards a groovy kind of fever pitch. “You look a little stoned,” he says, before responding to his own observation. “Well me I’m a little bit groggy/But it ain’t too foggy/I can see some way of getting out of here.” By this point, both guitars (played by Woodward and Tall Dwarfs’ Alec Bathgate) are full-on screeching and howling, and as the song sputters to a sudden finish, our man’s left waiting for someone to buy him “a ride out the gate.”

Chris Liberato    

Thou — Hightower (Self-released)

Hightower by Thou

Hightower is the latest in a string of digital compilations from Thou, most of which collect songs that have been previously released on small-batch splits, 7” records and other hyper-obscure media that briefly circulated through the metal underground. You might be tempted to pronounce that a cynical cash-grab, but Thou has posted Hightower (along with previous compilations, like Algiers, Oakland and Blessings of the Highest Order, a killer collection of Nirvana covers) on their official Bandcamp page as a name-yo’-price download. Thanks, band. Beyond convenience, Hightower has an additional, if a sort of inside-baseball, attraction. The band has re-recorded a few of its older songs with its latest, three-guitar line-up. Longtime listeners will recognize “Smoke Pigs” and “Fucking Chained to the Bottom of the Ocean,” which already sounded terrifyingly massive back in 2008 and 2007, respectively. The expanded instrumentation, new arrangements and better production give the songs even more power and depth, all the way down to the bottom of the effing ocean. Yikes. And there are a few additional touches, like K.C. Stafford’s clean vocals on “Fucking Chained…,” which provide an effective complement to Bryan Funck’s inimitably scabrous howl. Rarely has being pummeled and feeling bummed out been so vivifying.

Jonathan Shaw

Tropical Fuck Storm — Deep States (Joyful Noise)

Deep States by Tropical Fuck Storm

Fueled by exasperation as much as anger, the new album by Melbourne’s Tropical Fuck Storm rounds on the myriad ways in which the world has become a “Bumma Sanger” as leader Gareth Liddiard puts it on the eponymous song about COVID lockdown. A roiling meld of psychedelic garage garnished with elements of hip hop and electronic noise it’s close in method and mood if not sound to another Australian provocateur JG Thirwell whose Foetus project girded maximalist surfaces with rigid discipline. If the Tropical Fuck Storm sought to mirror current conditions, they succeed but lack of clarity in both production and intent makes Deep States a frustrating experience. Backing vocals from Fiona Kitschin (bass), Erica Dunn (keys and guitar) and Lauren Hammel (drums) leaven Liddiard’s blokey pronouncements and there are some good sounds and biting words but the band’s determination to overelaborate and underdevelop musical ideas makes this album seem like a lost opportunity.

Andrew Forell

Marta Warelis / Carlos “Zingaro” / Helena Espvall /Marcelo dos Reis — Turquoise Dream (JACC)

Turquoise Dream by Marta Warelis, Carlos "Zíngaro", Helena Espvall, Marcelo dos Reis

Turquoise Dream documents an example of an encounter that is a mainstay of avant-garde jazz festivals, in which out of towners mix it up locals that they may or may not know. This particular concert, which took place at the Jazz ao Centro Festival in 2019, is one such encounter that deserves to live past the night when it transpired. It featured three stringed instrument players who live in Portugal and a Polish pianist who is based in Holland. But they don’t sound like strangers at all. Violinist Zingaro, cellist Espvall, and guitarist dos Reis blend like flashes of sunlight reflecting off of waves, adding up to a sound that is bright and ever-changing. Warelis, who is equally resourceful with her head under the lid of her piano as she is at the keyboard, adding fleet but substantial responses to her hosts’ quicksilver interactions. The result is music that is resolutely abstract but closely engaged.

Bill Meyer

Wharflurch — Psychedelic Realms ov Hell (Gurgling Gore)

PSYCHEDELIC REALMS OV HELL by Wharflurch

Wharflurch is just plain fun to say — but there are at least two ways in which the name also makes sense for the band that has chosen it: it has a bilious, nauseous quality that matches the vibe of the pustulent death metal you’ll hear on Psychedelic Realms ov Hell; and if you separate the words, you can conjure a sodden, rotten wooden structure, swaying vertiginously over a marshy expanse of water, which is filled with alligators and decaying organic material. Imagine that sway, and that stink, and then imagine yourself collapsing into the viscous fluid, soon to be gator chow. Sounds like Florida, and that’s exactly from whence Wharflurch has emerged. Which also makes sense. Is Wharflurch’s music “psychedelic”? Depends on what you hear in that word. If you want to see hippies dancing ecstatically on a verdant, sun-drenched stretch of Golden Gate Park, then no. But if you have spent any time in the warped, dementedly distorted spaces that psychedelics can open (less happily perhaps, but very powerfully), then yes. Wharflurch likes to accent its meaty riffs and muscular thumps with weird flutters and electronic effects that frequently have a gastric, flatulent quality to them. The saturated and sickly pinks and greens on the album art do a pretty good job of capturing the music’s tones. So do the song titles: “Stoned Ape Apocalypse,” “Bog Body Boletus,” “Phantasmagorical Fumes.” Still game? I’m sorry. But I’ll also be standing right there next to you, on that wobbly, lurching wharf, watching the gators swim near.

Jonathan Shaw

Whisper Room — Lunokhod (Midira Records)

Lunokhod by Whisper Room

That the title of Whisper Room’s fifth album is taken from Soviet lunar rovers makes a certain sense, given how potentially frustrating it might have been for the trio to be working at such a distance. Generally their other records are recorded live, in one room, seeing Aidan Baker (guitar), Jakob Thiesen (drums) and Neil Wiernik (bass) exploring simultaneously, hitting whatever junctions of psychedelic/shoegazing/motorik sound come to them. With Baker in Berlin and travel understandably limiited, this time they recorded their parts separately, layering them together (and bringing in sound designer Scott Deathe to add the kind of pedal processing their sound engineer normally does live). The result certainly sounds as collaborative as ever, seven seamless tracks making up nearly an hour that makes the journey from the friendly, clattering percussion of “Lunokhod01” to the centrifugal ambience of “Lunokhod07” feel perfectly natural. Even though it explores just as much inner and outer space as Whisper Room ever have, there’s something very approachable about Lunokhod that makes it one of their best.

Ian Mathers

[theworststoryteller]

“Look, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to say I love you.” Gackle. 👀

I paraphrased a little bit but here it comes. I hope it’s still satisfying:

Geraldine shivers despite the multiple layers of blankets covering her body and her chest shakes violently as she goes into another coughing fit. She looks rather poorly with her bright eyes glowing red, her skin warm, her head heavy like lead and woozy. She brings a hand to her temples in attempt to stabilize herself against the growing feeling of dizziness. Witches’ fever is no simple deal, much less for Miss Gullet who has a pretty sensitive immune system, the entire reason behind her fixation on health and safety. She goes through this at least once every winter and somehow it never gets easier. It might have to do with the ancient carbuncle’s inadequate insulation or the depressing feeling of loneliness that nests inside her, now more than any other time, like a monster spreading its tentacles and suffocating her in its grip.Now, no one in this academy, not even miss Hardbroom, is heartless enough to let her suffer through illness on her own. They check on her, offer to spend time, lend her books and even the sour goth giraffe passes by a couple times to kindly hand her flu potions that will alleviate her symptoms but, in her heart, Geraldine knows this is all pretend. Their interest is ingenuine, stemming from pure pity or ideas over basic human decency. On a daily basis, when she’s full of life, the communication between her and the rest of Cackle’s staff never exceeds formalities between colleagues. She never gets invites to any parties or even tea and therefore despises their efforts to appear caring in her time of weakness. They’re a bunch of hypocrites and she doesn’t want any of them around. She only longs for the company of one person but she knows that’s not feasible. Not like this.Yet, at some point during the small hours of the night, when darkness and silence has befallen on the academy and all stands still, between her drifts in and out of consciousness, she distinguishes her silhouette on the chair next to her bed. She momentarily blinks, certain her mind is playing tricks on her, succumbed to the haze of fever. She wants to say something, reach for her hand but bites her tongue, seizing all words. This could lead to a terrible mistake.The blonde witch however, does not disappear. In fact, more and more details seem apparent the more Geraldine stares at her. She concludes it must be Ada, who came to check on her. The lack of glasses and the strawberry milk by her nightstand however suggest otherwise, proving her first instinct to be correct.“A-Aggie?” she stutters weakly “…mistress?” she adds, unsure of the proper title to call her by, her thoughts a tangled thread.“Shh” Agatha brings her finger to her lips. “They can’t find me here”“Sor-ry” the redhead attempts to sit up but her loved one pushes her back on the bed “Absolutely not, Gullet. Stay right where you are or I’ll magically bind you if I have to. You need to rest”“But if you did that, they would know you were here” the ginger witch points out, her first reasonable thought in hours.“I can deal with my bigheaded sister” her fellow witch smirks and waves disparagingly “But your health comes first”“You know, for the leader of a dark magic coven, you’re such a softie sometimes”“Don’t be ridiculous, Gullet” Agatha dismisses her, embarrassed by the moment of weakness she allowed her to see “I’m simply aware of the fact my plan to take over this school will not go very well if my sole accomplice isn’t strong enough to cast even a level one spell. That’s all” she offers an explanation without looking up from her hands.“Right” the other nods, not entirely convinced.A pause halts the flow of the conversation as she reaches for her drink and slurps the last gulp, emptying the bottle of its contents. A pause that’s brief yet long enough for Geraldine to slowly regress back to sleep.Her mistress, unaware, fidgets with her straw thoughtfully as she says “So we agree that it won’t be necessary”“Huh?”“Magically binding you”“Absolutely…not”“Good” Agatha smiles. She approaches the bed and carefully tucks her partner in crime in “Now go back to sleep like the sensible witch you are”“Wha…bout…you” Geraldine mumbles, grasping her hand over the blanket.“I don’t have much time but I’ll stay with you for a little bit” Agatha gives her hand a soft rub over her fingers before pulling away.“But..the flu…you”“Cackles do not get the flu, don’t you know that? We’re strong like lions” she chuckles. ‘Or well, some of us are married to the most competent potionist in the country’  She thinks to herself. “You don’t need to worry about me. Now go back to sleep before I hex you into sleep like Maleficent”“Yes, boss” Geraldine smiles into her pillow and with that falls back into the clasps of Morpheus.The first sunbeam of the day is making its way into the room when Agatha rises. She wraps her cloak around her shoulders, vanishes all evidence of her visit with a movement of her fingers. Broom in hand, she leans over the soundly sleeping spells teacher, who is snoring softly to bid her farewell.“I love you so much, my silly bat” she applies a tender kiss to her forehead “You can’t keeping scaring me like that”She turns around, sighs, wipes a tear away and disappears.“I love you too” Geraldine’s voice comes out no louder than a whisper, yet firm. When the deputy comes to bring her flu potion later that morning, she is surprised to find her spirits lifted, a big smile on her face in contrast to her previous gloomy attitude.‘That was strange’ she thinks once she’s exited the room “Maybe I put a little too much tarragon” she glances at the empty vial. She then raises her shoulders and goes about her day, deciding she’s too busy to occupy herself with such trivial matters. If Miss Gullet had gotten a glimpse of her confusion, she’d be quite amused. What does that moody spinster know about love anyway?     Fic prompt post: https://theworststoryteller.tumblr.com/post/190843988974/writing-promptsDrabble prompt post:https://theworststoryteller.tumblr.com/post/612125624858034176/drabble-list-2                                                    

[whentommymetalfie]

Fake dating AU

A/N: This takes place in it’s own little AU, to comply with the request, so it’s not compliant with my other work. Framework: 1. Still in the same setting as the show, but I’ve just decided to eradicate heteronormativity for this to work. Ah, if only that was a thing in real life. 2. Alfie hangs out a lot in Birmingham, don’t ask why 3. Him and Tommy are friends. Also, fair warning, this does go a bit OOC, but I still think it’s rather enjoyable. Again, to fit the request. I had a lot of fun writing this, hope it meets your expectations Anon! There is at the very least both flustered, pining and oblivious people in this. 

Warnings: just dumb stuff like fluff, my stupid humour and such. A little OOC

Pairing: Tommy/Alfie 

Wordcount: 2500 

Tommy comes storming into the Shelby household’s kitchen to his meeting with Alfie Solomons, looking like he’s about to stab someone.

“Billy Kimber is the worst man on earth and I would like to shoot him in the face,” he says and promptly takes Alfie’s whiskey glass away from him. He swallows the content and starts looking for a bottle.

“I’m very offended that someone has taken my top spot on that list,” Alfie says. ”What has he done?”

“Right, so I go to meet with him about the whole race-fixing-debacle –that’s where I’ve just been- And all he does is hit on me.” Tommy fills the glass again. ”Fucking unbelievable. He is not taking me seriously. I don’t know how to solve it.” He drains it in one go. Shakes his head. “I’ll just have to shoot him. That’s… that’s my only option.” Looking very much done with everyone and everything, he continues. “And now, he wants me to come to his fucking house and ‘discuss business’. How I’m going to get out of that one without either sleeping with him or killing him I have no idea.” He pauses. Breathes. Adds in a more thoughtful tone, “I suppose I could sleep with him, but that doesn’t exactly feel like a long term solution.”

Behind his back, Esme and Ada share a look.

“What if you were seeing someone else?” Esme pipes up.

“I doubt he’d care,” Tommy says.

“Maybe if that someone… was a person with a lot of power? And great influence. Intimidating, you know.” Ada says. “Preferably both physically and... mentally.”

“But it would have to be someone you already know, to make it seem believable,” Esme fills in.

“Preferably someone you’re already in business with…” Ada trails off and looks suggestively between Tommy and Alfie.

They both just stare at her, and she lets out a frustrated sigh.

“For fucks sake, I’m talking about Alfie!”

Tommy blinks. “What? Why- I- why would that help?”

“Yeah, I don’t see how that would work?” Alfie chimes in a little too quickly.

“Oh please, give it a rest, of course it would work!” Esme says. “You’ve know each other for over a year, you’re in business together, so it would also be a logical step. If you’d like to think of it that way.”

“And if you’re going to pick someone intimidating enough to make Kimber back off, you really can’t do better than Alfie Solomons.” Ada states.

“Well she is right about that,” Alfie says and looks rather pleased with himself.

“Have you two been rehearsing this?” Tommy says and looks suspiciously from Ada to Esme.

“No, it’s just that it’s so blindingly obvious. You are simply being an idiot.” Ada insists.

Tommy thinks it over. “Well, I guess… it could be worth a try.” He looks to Alfie, and doesn’t notice that he is already watching him. “If you’re alright with this?”

“Of course, I’ll scare him off for you. It’ll be a pleasure.”

“Fine… then I’ll.. give him a call, I guess. Say we’ll be coming to that dinner tomorrow.”

Tommy leaves the kitchen for the hallway, where the phone is set up. And, unbeknownst to Alfie, slams his forehead into the wall a few times.

Alfie turns to Esme and Ada with a quite wild look in his eyes. 

“What happened to ‘what is said in the snug, stays in the snug’?” he hisses at Esme.

“I’ve said nothing,” she defends herself and Alfie hushes her, glancing towards the hallway where Tommy is currently speaking with Kimber.

Ada smirks. “You should wear that black suit. Tommy thinks you look handsome in it.”

“I will not- he said that?”

“Not out loud, he tells me nothing, but I can see it in his eyes.”

“God, I get drunk with you one time and this is what I get,” Alfie groans and rubs the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is just a perfect solution to a problem. And in no way involves anything that has ever been told to me in confidence, under the influence of rum,” Esme says smugly.

“Oh, fuck off.” Alfie gets off his chair, grabs his cane and hat and walks toward the back door in the next room to avoid passing Tommy. He really can’t with this right now. “Tell Tommy we’ll be taking my car. I’ll pick him up.” He stops for a moment. “And you didn’t hear this from me, but tell him to wear the grey suit. It brings out his eyes.” Then he leaves.

Tommy is waiting outside the house for Alfie, smoking. And if he’s gone through two packets of cigarettes since last night’s idiotic plan was made, well then that’s neither here nor there. It’s fucking unbelievable that he can face down the barrel of a gun without batting an eye, but this turns him into a bloody wreck. He pulls at the sleeve of his grey jacket in a nervous gesture that he immediately regrets indulging in. He isn’t nervous. Why should he be nervous? It’s one dinner, and then him and Alfie can go back to being just business partners and… associates… friends. And Billy Kimber will leave him alone. It’s all perfect, and his palms are not sweaty. He lights another cigarette and decides never to listen to Ada again. The suit-thing was the very last advice he took from her, and he doesn’t understand why he did. It brings out your eyes. But why would he want that?

Right then, Alfie pulls up in his car and interrupts his thoughts. He gets out. And why, of all the suits he owns that he could wear, is he wearing the black one? He grins widely at Tommy and his eyes crinkles at the corners and Tommy thinks about just throwing himself in front of a moving vehicle.

“Hey there, sweetie,” he says, and the normally joking term of endearment sends a jolt through Tommy’s gut. “Ready to go?” he opens the car door and Tommy raises an eyebrow.

“Since when do you open doors for me?” he gets in and Alfie just keeps grinning.

“Since we became involved, of course. I’m nothing if not a gentleman. It doesn’t do to let your partner open their own doors.”

The car ride isn’t as bad as Tommy thought it might be. They quickly get off the topic of Billy Kimber and pretend relationships, and everything feels almost normal. Conversation is easy, as it always is with Alfie. Because Alfie just goes on and on about things, and Tommy is rather comfortable to be mostly quiet, make an impasse every once in awhile that makes Alfie nod thoughtfully and then elaborate on that topic. That’s just one of the things that work between them. Though every once in a while, Tommy looks at him and catches himself thinking about how handsome he is in this light. Or that the way he furrows his brow, when he’s talking about a topic he’s passionate about, is very becoming. And when those thoughts pop up, he is rather tempted to just fling himself out of the window. Because things are good the way they are and they will not change, because Alfie doesn’t see him that way and- The ditch at the side of the road is looking very tempting right about now.

He does, however, not end up in a ditch somewhere along the road. But when Alfie pulls up outside of Kimber’s country home, he almost wishes he had.

“So, how do you want to do this?” Alfie wonders.

“Just act normal. I mean not normal, not like you always do, because then we wouldn’t be- but normal as in- if you were-” Tommy resists the urge to just slam his head against the dashboard. He takes a breath, tells himself that this is just business, and he knows business. He regains control of his voice. “Just try to act the way you would if we were actually a couple. Pretend I’m someone else if that helps. I think we have to remember not to overdo it.”

“Right. So I’m not allowed to take you bent over the table during dinner?” Alfie says jokingly, Tommy feels his cheeks flush. Oh God, please do.

“I think that’s a pretty clear no,” he says, and is rather amazed he manages to keep his voice so calm, because all he can think about is Alfie’s strong hands around his waist, pinning him down as he- he snaps out of it.

“Well then, I think I’ve got this,” Alfie says, shoots him a smile and gets out of the car, going around to open his door.

He offers his arm to Tommy and he takes it, inwardly regretting every decision he’s ever made that led him up to this point.

One of Kimber’s maids show them to the study, where Kimber is waiting. He walks up to greet them, shaking first Alfie’s hand, then Tommy’s. Tommy makes note of that.

“Thomas Shelby and Alfie Solomons, in my humble abode. What an interesting night this could turn into.”

Yeah, Tommy thinks. Interesting.

Alfie feels as sturdy as ever by his side. It calms him down a bit.

“You know, I truly had no idea you two were a thing,” Kimber says as they walk towards the dining room. “That is a story I need to hear.” No, it’s not.

“Sure. But first we’ll talk about the races.” Tommy feels Alfie’s hand at the small of his back, sort of guiding him through the corridor. It feels safe, even though it’s for show.

Kimber chuckles “It’s always business with you, Thomas. But of course. The races first. The night is long.”

It’s turning out to be that.

At dinner, which is held in this ridiculously large hall that Alfie can’t fathom why someone would need, Kimber and Tommy talk business. Alfie lets Tommy do most of talking, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he is busy thinking about other things.

Why the fuck did you say that thing about the table? He asks himself for about the thousandth time. Tommy of course handled it with grace, but all he can think about now is him bent over, moaning Alfie’s name and- yeah, it’s very good that the table has a ridiculous tablecloth and that they’re sitting down. Alfie tries to focus on what Tommy is saying, but his attention constantly slips to just admiring his lips. Those soft, full lips. Then he catches himself and looks at his eyes instead, which he admits is an even worse decision, because Tommy’s eyes could make anyone fall in love. Bloody wars could probably be started over them.

And well this whole situation is just working out brilliantly for him. He did not have this problem until Esme and Ada started meddling. He was perfectly fine just casually admiring his business partner turned friend from afar, and now here he is, sitting in some fucking softly lit room with him. And all he can think is that he’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen and if he can’t have him he’ll fucking die.

An all around fucking terrible development.

“Now, I think it’s time for the whiskey,” Kimber suddenly says and stands up. “Let’s go to the study.” Tommy does the same and Alfie realizes that he’s sort of zooned out. How long have they’ve been sitting here? It’s at least long enough for his… predicament to have worked itself out, so he stands up too.

Tommy is pretty sure Kimber is buying it. He hasn’t made any obvious passes at him during dinner. And they were sat far enough apart that he couldn’t do anything under the table. Alfie’s presence works too, which is both satisfactory and a bit disheartening at once. Kimber listens when Tommy speaks which is an improvement, but the few times Alfie joins the conversation, he seems to hang by every word. But Alfie doesn’t give him the chance to cut Tommy from the conversation, because he constantly lets him take the lead. Tommy thinks that maybe this whole ordeal will be worth it in the end.  

It’s not until now, when they’re sat in Kimber’s study, and after a few whiskeys, that Kimber starts asking questions.

“So, Solomons. You’re a lucky man. I know quite a few men who’d give their right foot to have Thomas Shelby in their bed.” he says and lights a cigarette. “How long has this-“ he gestures between them. “-been going on.”   

“I didn’t take you for a gossip, Mr. Kimber,” Alfie says calmly, but there is an edge to his tone. He is pretty much completely sober, which is good because Tommy isn’t. Definitely not drunk, but he has downed a few drinks to ease some of the tension this whole day has resulted in and his head is a bit fussy.

“Indulge me.” Kimber smirks. Is he asking because he isn’t believing them? Tommy thinks frantically to come up with a believable story. He’s pretty sure he’s thought one up, but-

“Well for me, I just knew the moment I laid eyes on him,” Alfie says and gives Tommy this warm, genuine smile. Impeccable acting. “When he came to see me in my bakery. So I-“

And Alfie starts spinning this whole long, detailed story about how he ‘courted’ Tommy. Tommy listens, smiles and nods and is eternally grateful for Alfie’s talent for bullshit. If Kimber isn’t buying the story, he isn’t showing it, because he seems genuinely sort of engrossed in it. For some fucking reason. Another one of Alfie’s talents.

“And that’s the whole thing.” Alfie finishes off and reaches out to place a hand on Tommy’s knee.

“As I said Mr. Solomons, you’re a lucky man,” Kimber repeats and gives Tommy a look. Though he quickly turns back his attention to Alfie.

“I am,” Alfie agrees, and stands up. “Well, Mr. Kimber, it’s been a pleasure, but I think it’s time for me to get Thomas home.”

“Yes, of course,” Kimber says and reaches out a hand. He shakes both Alfie and Tommy’s hand.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Shelby.” So it’s Mr. Shelby now? Definitely an improvement.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Kimber.”

They escape to the car, and Tommy manages to keep it together down the driveway at least. But once they’re sure they’re out of all possible earshot, he starts laughing. Apparently it’s contagious, because Alfie has to stop the car to not drive it into a ditch. 

“That was the most stressful fucking dinner I’ve ever sat through,” Tommy gasps out. “Thank God for your ability to string a story together.”

Alfie wipes his eyes and tries to calm down enough to drive again.

“That’s why you’re in business with me,” he chuckles.

“Yeah,” Tommy leans back in his seat and closes his eyes, still smiling. “You know, in a different world, we’d probably make a pretty great couple.”

 Alfie smiles and looks at him. It’s the alcohol talking, he thinks to himself. “Yeah. We would.” 

Meanwhile, Billy Kimber is sitting in his study. Muttering about: ‘never having felt like such a fucking third-wheel in his entire life.”

When Tommy wakes up the next morning, it’s with a surprisingly light heart. As if all the tension has suddenly melted away. Yeah, that dinner was probably not such a bad idea after all.

“So,” Ada asks him when he comes down to the kitchen. “How did it go?”

“Oh, it went surprisingly well,” Tommy says and pours himself a cup of tea. “Turns out, Alfie is very good at pretending to be in love.”

“Yeah,” Esme mutters from where she is sitting on the countertop. “Pretending.”

“What did you say?” Tommy looks over to her.

“Oh absolutely nothing,” Esme says quickly as Ada shoots her a glare. “What’s said in the snug stays in the snug.”

“And things said under the influence of rum do too,” Ada fills her in.

Tommy sighs and leaves the kitchen. “You two are spending far too much time together.”

A few days later, him and Alfie are walking down the street, when Tommy spots none other than Billy Kimber. He’s quite far away still. But hell, they might as well play this out. 

He turns to Alfie. “Kiss me.”

Alfie looks confused. “What?”

Tommy nods just slightly in Kimber’s direction. The man hasn’t seen them yet, but is definitely walking in their direction. “We might as well cement this thing.”

He thinks it will take some more convincing, but Alfie just leans down and closes the distance between them.

The kiss is… something else. It’s fucking cliché, but it completely takes his breath away. At first, he doesn’t even know how to respond, but then he wraps his arms around Alfie’s neck.  One of Alfie’s hands is cradling the back of his head, the other is on the small of his back and Tommy feels like could melt completely into his arms and-

“He’s gone,” Alfie whispers suddenly and Tommy opens his eyes, feeling completely dazed.

“Oh,” he breathes out, not letting go of Alfie’s neck.

“Yeah. Disappeared down an alley or something. Fuck if I know.” Alfie says quietly. He’s not letting go either. Their faces are still only inches apart, and Tommy thinks he can feel his heart in his throat.

Alfie is breathing strangely, heavily. “We should-“ he begins

“Yeah,” Tommy says. Then he pulls him closer and kisses him again.

[birdofdoom]

Partners

This is my first request, yay! I will try to fill requests within a week of their posting (school and work schedules permitting).

The poster requested a fic in which the Reader and Tommy are married. Tatiana crashes the Reader’s birthday party and flirts with Tommy pushing the Reader and Thomas into a fight.

I enjoyed writing this and depending on the response I might continue it.

Arrow House was awash with gayety. Family and friends, acquaintances and strangers all gathered in the Shelby home to celebrate and partake in lavish revelry. Amber colored whiskey and golden champagne captured the light in their cut crystal glasses, making jewels out of the liquid sin. The music was loud, the dancing was chaotic, and the conversation brash. Tonight was a night that Tommy had chosen to pull out all the stops. It was [Y/N]’s birthday and more than anything he wanted to ensure that she was happy. Perfect companions in every way, [Y/N] was Thomas’ counterweight. They complemented each other well. Both in business and in marriage the pair was joined to create something far superior to the sum of their parts. She was wickedly clever and fast with the books, more tenderhearted than her ambitious husband; she nonetheless never batted an eye at the illicit practices of Shelby Brothers Ltd. When she married the calculating leader of the Peaky Blinders, she knew that she also had married into the business and took that in stride.

As a nurse in the war [Y/N] had experienced first hand the horrors of Tommy’s nightmares. She understood him in a way that women seldom did. She too had seen the devastation of gore and needless death. It was a common trauma that they bonded over, however it impacted them differently. The War had hardened Tommy. He returned from France no longer a child, no longer a man. Instead, what remained was anger and drive. Where laughter and sunshine once sat, ice and cunning had taken over. In opposition, the War had taught [Y/N] empathy. In the face of death and the pain of destruction, she learned gentleness and warmth. Yet that could never be confused with weakness or naiveté.

When they met, she brought a liveliness from him that had lain dormant for too long. She gave him the ability to laugh and smile again. She was creative and pushed him to think more openly about the legal side of the business. In turn, he challenged her to want more out of life. He encouraged her to never doubt her worth and to strive for ever-burgeoning goals. Their initial friendship blossomed quickly into courtship, and within six months they were married. Thick as thieves and honest to a fault, they seemed to have found soul mates in one another.

[Y/N] was absorbing the joyous ambiance of her party in the great room. Her new indigo-colored frock was gilded in copper and peach glass beads. The warm-hued baubles adorned the deep blue satin in undulating strands. The en vogue flapper design was risqué, yet somehow she exuded a restrained sense of class. Her warm and calm composure made her an oddity among the lively, frenzied partygoers. Coupled with her angelic beauty, the world seemed to part around her in awe. Tommy gazed longingly at her from across the room. With two whiskeys in hand, he walked over to the woman who felt like home. 

“Why hello there, Sargent Major. Is that a birthday present just for me?” [Y/N] laughed breathily.

“Why yes, Mrs. Shelby it is.” His intense cornflower blue eyes usually held an arctic chill, yet at the sound of her voice, they thawed. “How is it? The party I mean. Is there anything you want? Anything you need? Tonight, your wish is my command.”

“It’s perfect, Thomas. It’s what I’ve always wanted.” He could feel the sweetness of her smile radiating off of her cheeks as she spoke.

“And what’s that? Whiskey?” he mused lighting a cigarette. 

“No,” she shook her head with a smirk, “a family. A place to call home.” 

He looked at her with yearning and an ache to escape unnoticed upstairs to their bedroom. However, before he could voice his desire a guest happened upon them. She was elegant and lean in frame. Reminiscent of a ballerina, her long, thin physique was gently wrapped in a blush crepe silk gown with split petal sleeves and dotted with glistening silver sequins. Her chestnut hair was shiny and smoothly tucked into stylized pin curls behind a lavishly adorned headband. [Y/N] found her beauty unnerving, evocative of a living porcelain doll. Thomas’s face stiffened. The cordiality in his eyes turned and was replaced again with distrust and cynicism.

“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met. You must be a friend of Ada’s, you’re around her age,” [Y/N] mused, trying to placate conventions for polite conversation.

“The communist? No, never,” the beautiful woman snorted. Her accent was noticeable, yet not overtly thick. [Y/N] was cognizant of the current political climate. Her cheeks grew red with embarrassment, knowing that she had associated a White with a Red. 

“I’m sorry for the confusion Ms…”

“Petrovna, and its Grand Duchess.”

“Oh, my apologies!” [Y/N] hastily replied. “What do we owe the pleasure of your acquaintance?”

“I assure you, the pleasure is all Tommy’s. Just look at the way he stares. Poor boys never know how to act when they see true class; royalty.” Her caramel colored eyes shone like heated copper in the dim dance floor light. She looked defiant and coyly satisfied in her jab. 

“Rich girls never know how to hold their drink.” Thomas exhaled a cloud of smoke in irritation. The plumes framed his eyes creating the likeness of a wintry dragon. Champagne sloshed in the Duchess’s flute and tinkling silver laughter danced from her lips. 

“Don’t be so rude. I’ll get the wrong idea, Pryanichek.” Her fingers grazed his chin and she floated away to the dance floor. Downing the remnants of his whiskey, Tommy shook his head and quickly made his way to where cruel beauty was dancing. 

Confused and abandoned, [Y/N] found herself gripped with questions and doubt. She suddenly wanted to be alone and devoid of the cacophony of brass and base. Resting her half emptied crystal tumbler on a mahogany credenza, she abandoned the pulse of the dance floor. She opened the glass French doors to the balcony, finding respite in the stillness of the open air. Bell heather and bistort peppered the emerald hills. The cool spring night was filled with their sweet and spicy aroma. [Y/N] leaned against the stone railing of the balcony, looking out into the darkness of the night. Tears stung the corners of her eyes and began to well. The sharp earthiness of tobacco flooded her nose, suffocating and tainting the once pure, fragrant, country air. Soon the musky sharpness of aftershave followed and she knew Thomas stood in the entrance behind her. 

“So who was that?” Her voice wavered as she choked back her self-conscious tears.

“No one. No one at all.” Trails of smoke danced through the violet night. 

“Well, you’ve obviously met her before. She knew you. Why is she at my party? What the hell does ‘Pryanichek’ mean?” [Y/N]’s tone was quickly shifting from meek soreness to antagonism.

“Fuck if I know. Russian garbage. I know her through work. She thought it was an open invitation. You know how they are; entitled.” His voice was flat and unconvincing.

“I didn’t know Thomas Shelby was a whore now,” she laughed spitefully.

“Excuse me?!” a growl brewed in his stomach as he sneered at her accusation.

“Well, if it were Shelby Brothers Ltd business I would know. If it were Peaky business I would know. Which means its Tommy Shelby business. Seeing as you don’t have any, strictly speaking, legal skills, coupled with the way she talks to you, you’d have to be whoring yourself out to posh girls for you to call it ‘business’.”

“You don’t know everything that goes on in the business. It’s called ‘plausible deniability,’ Love. I’m keeping you safe.” His condescension was palpable.

“The fuck you are!”

“Now listen…” his irritation was beginning to mushroom.

“Did you give a toss about it ‘plausible deniability’ when we took on Sabini? Did you think about ‘plausible deniability’ when we, together, orchestrated the largest illegal international rum-running circuit to North America? Did you ever fucking think of ‘plausible deniability’ when I watched you cut a fucking man to death?! Huh? Did you? Don’t sell me this shite. We’re partners. We tell the truth. We’re open. That was the deal.” Her face had grown warm as anger sprang from her lips.

“The deal was that you would be my wife. You said ‘to love, cherish, and obey’ remember. Don’t fight me on this.” His words were sharp and brutal.

“Is she your tart? Your piece on the side!?” Fat tears were rolling down her cheeks. She hated that she couldn’t keep them in. She was hurt and resented that he could look so callous. 

“No. I told you, she’s a business associate.” 

“Then just tell me what business she’s in. As a partner, I have a right to know. Tell me!”

“Fucking listen to me! Why is it anytime we fight it’s a goddamn war on. Jesus, it isn’t worth it! Just stop!” His voice was hoarse and strained from yelling.

“Listen to me, Thomas! This isn’t like going over the top. There’s no whistle. There’s no ‘Tally ho’. No guns; just you and me and your fucking lies. And I’ll let you in on a little secret; I’m not a fucking German soldier. I’m your wife! I’m your best fucking friend! Hell, your only friend! For Christ’s sake Thomas, I’m yours. Why can’t you tell me? We’re goddamn partners!” Her kohl eyeliner and mascara wrapped spider webs down the streaks of tears on her cheeks. 

“Why can’t you just trust me on this?” His voice softened as he placed his hands on her shoulders. He looked for common ground in her eyes.

“Can’t kid a kidder and can’t trust a liar,” she turned her head, breaking eye contact, signaling a larger fissure between the two. A long silence passed as the two stood solemnly in the balmy spring night. The party had continued raucously inside, and the echo of the bacchanalia rang through the glass. The excitement brought the couple’s pain into sharp relief. 

“I think I want a divorce.” Her voice was firm. It was the first time Tommy had heard her voice ring cold. Even in anger and argument she had always run hot and been warm. She was quick to forgive and settle into peace, never icy or resolute. [Y/N]’s eyes were glazed over. As he found her eyes in the darkness, he could see that mentally she was no longer standing before him. Elsewhere in mind and heart, [Y/N] was closing herself off from the man she had called soul mate. His jaw hung slack and his nearly spent cigarette fell to the patio. Reeling from the glacial words, Tommy could hear a whistle in the distance.      

[newstfionline]

To Stay Married, Embrace Change

By Ada Calhoun, NY Times, April 21, 2017

A couple of years ago, it seemed as if everyone I knew was on the verge of divorce.

“He’s not the man I married,” one friend told me.

“She didn’t change, and I did,” said another.

And then there was the no-fault version: “We grew apart.”

Emotional and physical abuse are clear-cut grounds for divorce, but they aren’t the most common causes of failing marriages, at least the ones I hear about. What’s the more typical villain? Change.

Feeling oppressed by change or lack of change; it’s a tale as old as time. Yet at some point in any long-term relationship, each partner is likely to evolve from the person we fell in love with into someone new--and not always into someone cuter or smarter or more fun. Each goes from rock climber to couch potato, from rebel to middle manager, and from sex crazed to sleep obsessed.

Sometimes people feel betrayed by this change. They fell in love with one person, and when that person doesn’t seem familiar anymore, they decide he or she violated the marriage contract. I have begun to wonder if perhaps the problem isn’t change itself but our susceptibility to what has been called the “end of history” illusion.

“Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they’re finished,” the Harvard professor Daniel Gilbert said in a 2014 TED talk called “The Psychology of Your Future Self.” He described research that he and his colleagues had done in 2013: Study subjects (ranging from 18 to 68 years old) reported changing much more over a decade than they expected to.

In 2015, I published a book about where I grew up, St. Marks Place in the East Village of Manhattan. In doing research, I listened to one person after another claim that the street was a shadow of its former self, that all the good businesses had closed and all the good people had left. This sentiment held true even though people disagreed about which were the good businesses and who were the good people.

Nostalgia, which fuels our resentment toward change, is a natural human impulse. And yet being forever content with a spouse, or a street, requires finding ways to be happy with different versions of that person or neighborhood.

Because I like to fix broken things quickly and shoddily (my husband, Neal, calls my renovation aesthetic “Little Rascals Clubhouse”), I frequently receive the advice: “Don’t just do something, stand there.”

Such underreacting may also be the best stance when confronted by too much or too little change. Whether or not we want people to stay the same, time will bring change in abundance.

A year and a half ago, Neal and I bought a place in the country. We hadn’t been in the market for a house, but our city apartment is only 500 square feet, and we kept admiring this lovely blue house we drove by every time we visited my parents. It turned out to be shockingly affordable.

So now we own a house. We bought furniture, framed pictures and put up a badminton net. We marveled at the change that had come over us. Who were these backyard-grilling, property-tax-paying, shuttlecock-batting people we had become?

When we met in our 20s, Neal wasn’t a man who would delight in lawn care, and I wasn’t a woman who would find such a man appealing. And yet here we were, avidly refilling our bird feeder and remarking on all the cardinals.

Neal, who hadn’t hammered a nail in all the years I’d known him, now had opinions on bookshelves and curtains, and loved going to the hardware store. He whistled while he mowed. He was like an alien. But in this new situation, I was an alien, too--one who knew when to plant bulbs and how to use a Crock-Pot, and who, newly armed with CPR and first aid certification, volunteered at a local camp. Our alien selves were remarkably compatible.

Several long-married people I know have said this exact line: “I’ve had at least three marriages. They’ve just all been with the same person.” I’d say Neal and I have had at least three marriages: Our partying 20s, child-centric 30s and home-owning 40s.

Then there’s my abbreviated first marriage. Nick and I met in college and dated for a few months before dropping out and driving cross-country. Over the next few years, we worked a series of low-wage jobs. On the rare occasions when we discussed our future, he said he wasn’t ready to settle down because one day, he claimed, he would probably need to “sow” his “wild oats”--a saying I found tacky and a concept I found ridiculous.

When I told Neal about this years later, he said, “Maybe you found it ridiculous because you’d already done it.”

It’s true that from ages 16 to 19 I had a lot of boyfriends. But with Nick, I became happily domestic. We adopted cats. I had changed in such a way that I had no problem being with just one person. I was done changing and thought he should be, too. Certainly, I thought he should not change into a man who sows oats.

When we got married at the courthouse so he could get his green card (he was Canadian), I didn’t feel different the next day. We still fell asleep to “Politically Incorrect” with our cats at our feet as we always had.

We told anyone who asked that the marriage was no big deal, just a formality so the government wouldn’t break us up. But when pressed, it was hard to say what differentiated us from the truly married beyond the absence of a party.

When I grew depressed a few months later, I decided that he and our pseudo-marriage were part of the problem. After three years of feeling like the more committed person, I was done and asked him to move out. When he left, I felt sad but also thrilled by the prospect of dating again. A couple of years later, I met Neal.

Recently, I asked Nick if we could talk. We hadn’t spoken in a decade. He lives in London now, so we Skyped. I saw that he looked almost exactly as he had at 22, though he’d grown a long beard. We had a pleasant conversation. Finally, I asked him if he thought our marriage counted.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it counts.”

We were married, just not very well. The marriage didn’t mean much to us, and so when things got rough, we broke up. I had been too immature to know what I was getting into. I thought passion was the most important thing. When my romantic feelings left, I followed them out the door. It was just like any breakup, but with extra paperwork.

Nick now works at a European arts venue. He’s unmarried. I wouldn’t have predicted his life or his facial hair. I don’t regret our split, but if we had stayed married, I think I would have liked this version of him.

My hair is long and blond now. When Neal and I met, it was dyed black and cut to my chin. When I took to bleaching it myself, it was often orange, because I didn’t know what I was doing.

Now I weigh about 160 pounds. When I left the hospital after being treated for a burst appendix, I weighed 140. When I was nine months pregnant and starving every second, I weighed 210. I have been everything from size 4 to 14. I have been the life of the party and a drag. I have been broke and loaded, clinically depressed and radiantly happy. Spread out over the years, I’m a harem.

How can we accept that when it comes to our bodies (and everything else, for that matter), the only inevitability is change? And what is the key to caring less about change as a marriage evolves--things like how much sex we’re having and whether or not it’s the best sex possible?

One day in the country, Neal and I heard a chipmunk in distress. It had gotten inside the house and was hiding under the couch. Every few minutes, the creature let out a high-pitched squeak. I tried to sweep it out the door to safety with a broom, but it kept running back at my feet.

“Wow, you’re dumb,” I said to it.

“I got this,” Neal said, mysteriously carrying a plastic cereal bowl. “Shoo it out from under there.”

I did, and the chipmunk raced through the living room. Neal, like an ancient discus thrower, tossed the bowl in a beautiful arc, landing it perfectly atop the scampering creature. He then slid a piece of cardboard under the bowl and carried the chipmunk out into the bushes, where he set it free.

“That was really impressive,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

To feel awed by a man I thought I knew completely: It’s a shock when that happens after so many years. And a boon. That one fling of a bowl probably bought us another five years of marriage.

[thisishowyouletgoandfindyou-blog]

To Stay Married, Embrace Change

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By ADA CALHOUN APRIL 21, 2017

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A couple of years ago, it seemed as if everyone I knew was on the verge of divorce.

“He’s not the man I married,” one friend told me.

“She didn’t change, and I did,” said another.

And then there was the no-fault version: “We grew apart.”

Emotional and physical abuse are clear-cut grounds for divorce, but they aren’t the most common causes of failing marriages, at least the ones I hear about. What’s the more typical villain? Change.

Feeling oppressed by change or lack of change; it’s a tale as old as time. Yet at some point in any long-term relationship, each partner is likely to evolve from the person we fell in love with into someone new — and not always into someone cuter or smarter or more fun. Each goes from rock climber to couch potato, from rebel to middle manager, and from sex crazed to sleep obsessed.

Sometimes people feel betrayed by this change. They fell in love with one person, and when that person doesn’t seem familiar anymore, they decide he or she violated the marriage contract. I have begun to wonder if perhaps the problem isn’t change itself but our susceptibility to what has been called the “end of history” illusion.

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“Human beings are works in progress that mistakenly think they’re finished,” the Harvard professor Daniel Gilbert said in a 2014 TED talk called “The Psychology of Your Future Self.” He described research that he and his colleagues had done in 2013: Study subjects (ranging from 18 to 68 years old) reported changing much more over a decade than they expected to.

In 2015, I published a book about where I grew up, St. Marks Place in the East Village of Manhattan. In doing research, I listened to one person after another claim that the street was a shadow of its former self, that all the good businesses had closed and all the good people had left. This sentiment held true even though people disagreed about which were the good businesses and who were the good people.

Nostalgia, which fuels our resentment toward change, is a natural human impulse. And yet being forever content with a spouse, or a street, requires finding ways to be happy with different versions of that person or neighborhood.

Because I like to fix broken things quickly and shoddily (my husband, Neal, calls my renovation aesthetic “Little Rascals Clubhouse”), I frequently receive the advice: “Don’t just do something, stand there.”

Such underreacting may also be the best stance when confronted by too much or too little change. Whether or not we want people to stay the same, time will bring change in abundance.

A year and a half ago, Neal and I bought a place in the country. We hadn’t been in the market for a house, but our city apartment is only 500 square feet, and we kept admiring this lovely blue house we drove by every time we visited my parents. It turned out to be shockingly affordable.

So now we own a house. We bought furniture, framed pictures and put up a badminton net. We marveled at the change that had come over us. Who were these backyard-grilling, property-tax-paying, shuttlecock-batting people we had become?

When we met in our 20s, Neal wasn’t a man who would delight in lawn care, and I wasn’t a woman who would find such a man appealing. And yet here we were, avidly refilling our bird feeder and remarking on all the cardinals.

Neal, who hadn’t hammered a nail in all the years I’d known him, now had opinions on bookshelves and curtains, and loved going to the hardware store. He whistled while he mowed. He was like an alien. But in this new situation, I was an alien, too — one who knew when to plant bulbs and how to use a Crock-Pot, and who, newly armed with CPR and first aid certification, volunteered at a local camp. Our alien selves were remarkably compatible.

Several long-married people I know have said this exact line: “I’ve had at least three marriages. They’ve just all been with the same person.” I’d say Neal and I have had at least three marriages: Our partying 20s, child-centric 30s and home-owning 40s.

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Then there’s my abbreviated first marriage. Nick and I met in college and dated for a few months before dropping out and driving cross-country. Over the next few years, we worked a series of low-wage jobs. On the rare occasions when we discussed our future, he said he wasn’t ready to settle down because one day, he claimed, he would probably need to “sow” his “wild oats” — a saying I found tacky and a concept I found ridiculous.

When I told Neal about this years later, he said, “Maybe you found it ridiculous because you’d already done it.”

It’s true that from ages 16 to 19 I had a lot of boyfriends. But with Nick, I became happily domestic. We adopted cats. I had changed in such a way that I had no problem being with just one person. I was done changing and thought he should be, too. Certainly, I thought he should not change into a man who sows oats.

When we got married at the courthouse so he could get his green card (he was Canadian), I didn’t feel different the next day. We still fell asleep to “Politically Incorrect” with our cats at our feet as we always had.

We told anyone who asked that the marriage was no big deal, just a formality so the government wouldn’t break us up. But when pressed, it was hard to say what differentiated us from the truly married beyond the absence of a party.

When I grew depressed a few months later, I decided that he and our pseudo-marriage were part of the problem. After three years of feeling like the more committed person, I was done and asked him to move out. When he left, I felt sad but also thrilled by the prospect of dating again. A couple of years later, I met Neal.

Recently, I asked Nick if we could talk. We hadn’t spoken in a decade. He lives in London now, so we Skyped. I saw that he looked almost exactly as he had at 22, though he’d grown a long beard. We had a pleasant conversation. Finally, I asked him if he thought our marriage counted.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it counts.”

We were married, just not very well. The marriage didn’t mean much to us, and so when things got rough, we broke up. I had been too immature to know what I was getting into. I thought passion was the most important thing. When my romantic feelings left, I followed them out the door. It was just like any breakup, but with extra paperwork.

Nick now works at a European arts venue. He’s unmarried. I wouldn’t have predicted his life or his facial hair. I don’t regret our split, but if we had stayed married, I think I would have liked this version of him.

My hair is long and blond now. When Neal and I met, it was dyed black and cut to my chin. When I took to bleaching it myself, it was often orange, because I didn’t know what I was doing.

Now I weigh about 160 pounds. When I left the hospital after being treated for a burst appendix, I weighed 140. When I was nine months pregnant and starving every second, I weighed 210. I have been everything from size 4 to 14. I have been the life of the party and a drag. I have been broke and loaded, clinically depressed and radiantly happy. Spread out over the years, I’m a harem.

How can we accept that when it comes to our bodies (and everything else, for that matter), the only inevitability is change? And what is the key to caring less about change as a marriage evolves — things like how much sex we’re having and whether or not it’s the best sex possible?

One day in the country, Neal and I heard a chipmunk in distress. It had gotten inside the house and was hiding under the couch. Every few minutes, the creature let out a high-pitched squeak. I tried to sweep it out the door to safety with a broom, but it kept running back at my feet.

“Wow, you’re dumb,” I said to it.

“I got this,” Neal said, mysteriously carrying a plastic cereal bowl. “Shoo it out from under there.”

I did, and the chipmunk raced through the living room. Neal, like an ancient discus thrower, tossed the bowl in a beautiful arc, landing it perfectly atop the scampering creature. He then slid a piece of cardboard under the bowl and carried the chipmunk out into the bushes, where he set it free.

“That was really impressive,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

To feel awed by a man I thought I knew completely: It’s a shock when that happens after so many years. And a boon. That one fling of a bowl probably bought us another five years of marriage.

Ada Calhoun, who lives in New York, is the author of a forthcoming memoir, “Wedding Toasts I’ll Never Give,” from which this essay is adapted.

modernlove@nytimes.com

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A version of this article appears in print on April 23, 2017, on Page ST5 of the New York edition with the headline: To Stay Married, Embrace Change. Order Reprints| Today's Paper|Subscribe

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RECENT COMMENTS

Ron Epstein

April 26, 2017

Better yet, pick the right partner.

Joseph A. Losi

April 25, 2017

I love this piece. Thanks so much for your wit and your ability to capture it. "I'm a harem." Wonderful.

JoeH

April 25, 2017

My wife & I celebrated 41 years of marriage this weekend. We have known each other for 45 years. Change abounds! We consciously drive the...

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