James Hetfield ‎90’s

The rain wasn’t coming down hard, just enough to make the windows look like they were sweating. He was halfway through tuning his guitar when he heard the knock at the door. Light, but confident. Cali had mentioned someone was coming over to help her with a lit project. He hadn’t thought much of it, she always had some new plan in motion, some artsy thing that involved too many people and too little warning. He didn’t move right away. Just listened.

The front door opened and, as expected, Cali greeted whoever it was like they’d just come back from war. Loud, warm, borderline smothering. That was her way. You either got used to it, or you avoided the apartment.

Then he heard you: the guest. Dry voice, sharp. Teasing Cali right back: “Let’s see if you’re still this affectionate when I mark your thesis.” That caught his ear. Not many people gave Cali shit like that. He liked it. No fake politeness, no trying too hard. He stepped out into the hall just as Cali called out, louder than necessary, “My friend is here!” like he wasn’t already listening. Something about the way she said it made his pause. His shoulders stiffened. “Friend” was vague. Could mean anything. And suddenly, he wasn’t sure if I should be expecting a student, a guest lecturer, or someone who thought this was a party.

He stayed quiet, eyes on the corner of the hallway, waiting to see who would round it first.