Emma and I go to city bakery, which is always good even if it does look like a high-end high school cafeteria and she reads some of the lyrics I've brought carefully and slowly while I eat incredible stuffed vanilla French toast and she stirs her chilled gespacho.
"It's not utter shit." She says finally. I used to write 1960's style psychedelia-pop and when Geffen suggested a new "sound" for our next album I started trying to rediscover that. The songs are a bit like Syd Barrett, I think, or at least, I hope they are. "Where'd you find inspiration all the sudden?" I shrug.
"What is in Savannah?"
"A lot of things." He red hair is piled on her head and she's wearing the same combat boots she wore in high school. People are staring at us, whispering, recognizing. "Some really beautiful architecture. Good coffee houses, a river."
"How is she?" I shrug again.
"Alright." She said, "I hate you like this."
"How's Landon?" I ask,
I don't call Mena later in the week, or at all, and she slips away quietly, I read in Life that she's seeing some record label giant now, I hate girls like that.
By the time two weeks have passed I'm starting to feel normal again, whatever that is, the Met. Show is coming up and so I have that to feel nervous about. And I'm feeling less creative, the songs I wrote in Savannah sit around, mostly unfinished, collecting dust.