Less Than Nothing by R.E. Blake

seat next to him and start strumming along. I’m a little out of tune, but it’s okay, because we haven’t played this one yet and it doesn’t count – it’s more like practice.
    Street musicians tend to stick to the classics, because most of the time the people who tip are the older folks. Younger ones tend to be broke or tight-fisted, so knowing tunes from the sixties and seventies is essential to making a living, especially in a neighborhood like the Haight.
    Derek stops playing, and we get in tune, and then he starts playing the famous opening again and whispers to me that he’ll do the vocal and the lead guitar. That’s fine with me, because his voice is miraculous in the song’s range. He’s also got perfect timing and a flawless delivery. When we’re done, there’s already two bucks in the case, a bill from a guy with a beret and colorful scarf and the coins from a pair of teenage girls who are still there, giggling and looking at Derek like Justin Bieber was sitting in.
    I’m used to it after yesterday. Besides, Melody’s words are still rolling and clacking around in my head like pinballs. We play another song, this time with me singing, and before I know it, Melody’s waving good-bye and the case has a pile of coins and bills in it.
    We sound better today, our voices meshing with increased familiarity, and by lunchtime I’ve been surprised multiple times by a song where Derek and I just nailed it. As a musician, those are the moments you live for. It’s hard to explain how good it feels when you get it right – almost like you’re flying, effortlessly soaring above everything with superhuman ease.
    This time Derek gets lunch, pita sandwiches from the run-down place at the end of the block. We take a break and scarf them down, and then we’re back at it until pedestrian traffic thins and it’s getting dark. Derek counts the money as I pack up, and when he’s done, he’s smiling.
    “Oh, nothing. Just a hundred twenty-seven. That’s all.”
    This time I’m not as surprised as yesterday. We sounded really good, so it figures there was more appreciation. Still, the number seems impossibly high after months of making twenty or twenty-five dollars per day at most.
    “I owe you thirty for dinner and five for Bull’s place, so that’s…twenty-eight fifty for me, and the rest for you.”
    Derek shakes his head. “Bull’s place was on me. You didn’t have any choice in the matter.” He counts out thirty-three dollars, favoring me heavily with the bills, and slides them toward me. I collect the money and tuck it away. I feel like I’m walking on air – I’ve got more money in my backpack now than I’ve had at any point since I left home.
    Which is awesome, but doesn’t really help me figure out what to do about Derek. Even with him right next to me, he’s all I can think about. Or rather, how he might or might not feel about me is dominating my thoughts. A part of me wishes we’d bombed today, because then I could chock yesterday up to a fluke, and we could go our separate ways.
    That would be way simpler. But it doesn’t look like that’s how it’s going to play out.
    The other part of me is happy, radiantly so, and wants to run down the street, screaming to the rooftops. For the first time in forever I feel something. Sure, it’s confusing and more than a little bit scary, but I can’t pretend that I don’t.
    Which is where it gets complicated.
    Derek watches me as I absently put Yam away, my mind obviously elsewhere. He leans toward me with a grin. “Earth to Sage. Do you read?”
    I return the smile. “Sorry. I do that sometimes.”
    “As long as I didn’t do anything.”
    Right. Besides exist, and choose my little slice of paradise to saunter into, with that voice, that body, those looks…
    I shake my head. “No. I’m just a little spacey.”
    He puts his guitar into the case and closes it. When he looks up, I can’t tell what he’s thinking. “You hungry?”
    I’m