Anymore

“Thanks for the new phone, man. It got here pretty fast.” Clay cradled the shiny new gadget between his ear and shoulder while he attempted to chop the chicken. Bob was better with a knife - probably that whole rhythmic drummer thing. Clay swore when he almost took off part of his finger, and Scott laughed in his ear.

“Is Betty Crocker Clay on the loose again?”

“Bob’s not here, all right? I have to cook for myself.” Clay sighed and set down the knife, stared at his hands. He remembered pretending to stare at his cuticles lots of times as a teenager, the only way he could really show disdain for his father without risking what Bob risked.

“You let Bobby-O cook you food? And you’re still alive?”

“Apparently Bob’s pretty handy with foreign cuisine,” Clay said. He stared - really stared - at his hands and remembered a crazy fan had latched onto him, crying with joy and hysteria, and told him his hands were magic. He and his brothers had been adolescent long enough to have a good laugh about it later, but his hands were just - hands. His fingernails were always chipped because he played his bass without a pick, and his fingertips were heavily callused. As an experiment, he dug a fingernail into one of his fingertips and felt...nothing. Huh. He had that much dead skin in one spot? But it was a good thing - making music didn’t hurt. At least, not physically.

“Any word from your taller half?”

“Not one. If you hear from him, tell him to come home - I’m terrible with kids. Have I mentioned Bob’s also handy to have around when kids start to cry?”

More laughter from Scott. “Is there anything you’re better than Bob at?”

“Picking up chicks,” Clay said automatically, and then he sighed. Sure, he was good at picking girls up at bars, but of the brothers four, the only one who was in a steady relationship was Dan. He and Joey had been together for four years.

“That’s what you think. Actually, uh, I have heard from Bob.”

Clay raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”

“He’s still on his way to see her. He, uh, he wrote a song.”

“He did what?” Clay glanced toward the corner of the main room, but his guitar was still there - he’d used it earlier that day, after all.

“Yeah. It was a pretty good song, too.” Something in Scott’s voice was oddly muted. “You know what I realized today?”

“What?” Clay wondered what sort of song Bob could have written, remembered the steady bitterness of Two Beats and remorseful resignation of Love Isn’t.

“I don’t have guitar calluses anymore,” Scott said.

Clay rubbed his fingertips together and realized he couldn’t feel anymore. “That’s too bad,” he said. “I really liked Perilously Here.”

“I did, too.”

(oddly enough, all of the song titles referenced in this piece are actual songs; I cannot guarantee that you'll find them on YouTube)