Only he’s never played for anyone before, no one but Krish, and it’s hard to be nervous around the man who sleeps next to him each night. So he checks his bag to make sure he has his notebook—he does, he carries it everywhere—then he makes a quick sandwich using leftover curry chicken Krish brought home from the restaurant and, while he eats, he checks the notebook again. Still there. He gets his guitar and his picks, which he doesn’t use but he might, he never knows, and puts them in his bag with the notebook and a few extra strings, just in case.
In the shower his hands fumble over his body because he’s getting anxious, as if he’s getting ready for the prom or something. He changes clothes three times before he decides that jeans and a turtleneck are fine. It’s chilly out, though, so he
