Archive of Our Own ^beta

Owen looked up from the desk with a sigh, as he heard the slither and thump of another return thud its way through the chute. He put aside the dog-eared Margaret Atwood novel he’d been idly reading, and got up to collect the returned books. Another fifteen minutes, another set of dewey numbers to cross-check and consult and fuss around with, more returns to strike off, more dockets to print, more books to lend - maybe. If anyone came through.
He’d sworn when Grace called this morning that she’d said he’d only be minding the library for two hours, and yet it was coming up to three. He couldn’t help but feeling that his time was too precious, too valuable to be kept in enforced boredom. He didn’t have the training to do anything interesting - he was just minding, sitting, waiting, babysitting a roomful of books like an enormous broody hen fussing over a clutch of eggs that would never hatch.
“Owen,” she’d said, her voice with that special particular tone that indicated a request for a favour. “I know you’re only in Sweetbay for a couple of days, but would it be OK if you - “
“Yes,” he immediately said, knowing what his sister was going to say. This had to be the third time, or maybe the fourth. It was getting to the point where he was almost avoiding going back to Sweetbay, just so he’d never have to mind the town library ever again. “I’ve got a concert on tonight though so it can’t be anything too late.”
“I just have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” she followed swiftly. “It would really be a great help if you - “
“Fine!” said Owen irritably. “You don’t need to give me an explanation, I’ll do it. But this has to be the last time, unless you’re going to give me some kind of honourary qualification in library science.”

And so, he’d found himself walking up the steps of the old building once more, in a downtown that was steadily becoming quieter and quieter, as people drove to Prescott and Wiltshire on the weekends to buy their groceries and visit the pub and go to Canadian Tire, and then came home to their amazon deliveries. There didn’t seem much use for a library anymore. Owen wasn’t sure whether he should be sad about a civic tradition dying. Mostly, he just felt apathetic.

Should he call her?
Assuming he wouldn’t be disturbed for at least another thirty minutes, Owen reached below the counter and pulled out his violin. He rosined the bow, and played a few tentative scratchy notes.
The sudden sound caused a disapproving lady to materialise from behind the nearest shelf, in the Gardening and Landscape section.
“Shh!” she whispered furiously. “Young man, this is a library!”
“Sorry,” he muttered, although he was anything but.
Christ, it was so boring! Owen recalled the words of his mother when he was a child, telling him and his squabbling sister that there was no such thing as being bored, and to make their own fun.
Duly, he went around to the shelves and pulled out the ten most ridiculous books he could see. Microwave Cooking for One, that was a key candidate. Secrets of the Inner Orgasm. A few shelves along he found ten copies of Wild Animus, clearly left there by an over-zealous donor; the author himself. Owen flicked the book open to a random page, to find that the book appeared to be about a masturbating goat-man. Or maybe man-goat. He briefly contemplated putting it back, but even reading about some man’s ill-conceived caprine fantasies seemed a better prospect than waiting idly by the library’s phone.
Midway through his task, Owen walked through the stacks and into the handicrafts section, only for the door to suddenly open. At last! Something was happening!
He wanted Grace to walk in and free him of his misery so desperately that he could almost taste the relief, the triumph of being able to leave. The outside sky was so bright, the light so white and harsh and fresh in contrast to the library’s spluttering fluoros, that the sudden visitor seemed to him to be an angel of deliverance.
“Grace?”
He heard his words falter in the air, as his eyes adjusted and the light dipped, to reveal something far less miraculous than his sister returning from a doctor’s appointment. Something dull, corporeal, ordinary. There was the heavy thud of disappointment in his stomach, as solid as a book falling down the return chute.
“Owen?”
“What?” snapped Owen irritably, as he made his way over to behind the desk, abandoning his armful of preposterous books on the nearest return trolley. This was the sort of added complication he didn’t want.

Last year, Owen had been performing at a festival. He was midway through his set when the skies had protested, and the sudden tide of rain had let him know that there would be no more playing that day.
He’d ducked backstage, cursing, flicking water out of his eyes, his wet hair plastered onto his forehead and his violin sloshing with water. He imagined the wood swelling, and shook his instrument about, trying to rattle the water free.
“Hey,” came a call from his side. “You want some towels?”
Turning, Owen saw one of his fellow performers vigorously towel-drying his hair with one of a stack of identical towels, which appeared to have been stolen from some hotel.
He was a doe-like man, dark haired and gentle-looking, wet eyelashes standing spiked around blue eyes. Startlingly blue eyes. He was completely soaked.
“Hi, I don’t believe we ever properly met. Sufjan,” said the man, proffering his hand.
“Huh?” Owen said, accepting the handshake.
“Sufjan Stevens,” came the patient reply, accompanied with the toss of a towel.
“Oh right, I know you. Well..sort of. Anyway, I’m Owen.”
“First festival?” said Sufjan.
“Not really,” said Owen, “but first one of this size. Not for you, I gather.”
“I’ve lost count,” Sufjan replied, and then paused as Owen dried himself off as best as he could. The look seemed lingering, absent but somehow self-conscious.
“You got a spare shirt?” said Owen. “Only the one you’re wearing’s kind of wet.” He spoke nonchalantly, but couldn’t help but notice the damp fabric clinging seal-like to Sufjan’s chest.
“I’ll manage,” Sufjan said, shivering.
“Suit yourself,” muttered Owen, removing his own shirt. The contrast between the huge damp patch on the back of his neck and the dryness elsewhere was going to drive him up the wall. He turned away slightly while doing so, feeling oddly vulnerable in the moments when the shirt came over his head, obscuring his vision; and yet, he felt those blue eyes upon him. Looking.
Sufjan took a step forward.
“What do you want?” said Owen slowly, although the look in the other man’s eyes told him that he already knew the answer.
Sufjan looked down, blinking at the floor. He turned his head suddenly, as if looking for intruders, and then turned back to Owen, his gaze as unsteady as custard.
“I don’t know.”
And yet he stood there, his eyes asking a desperate question. Owen decided to give him the answer. Walking forwards, he touched Sufjan’s arm, feeling the man twitch slightly between his fingers. Owen’s hand curled around his waist, lifting damp cloth to feel warm, vital skin. Owen lifted his other hand up to Sufjan’s face, touching his cheek, drawing the man towards him. They met in a kiss, fluttering and birdlike at first, and then warmer and more passionate as the two curled into each other, sharing a desperate heat. He could feel Sufjan’s eyelashes brushing his cheek, Sufjan’s hands on his bare back, one of them resting lightly but hopefully on his arse.
They broke for air. Owen reached towards Sufjan again, wanting to continue touching him. He seemed so desperate for contact. It wasn’t just the cold and the rain, it was the look that the other man had given him; a plea for closeness.
He began to lift Sufjan’s shirt, meaning to take it off. He brushed against Sufjan’s thigh, feeling a rigid heat, a hardness. There was a sharp intake of breath, and suddenly Owen felt Sufjan back away. The desperate desire had turned to fear.
“I’m sorry,” came Sufjan’s quiet little excuse, as he busied himself with tugging down the hem of his shirt, and gathering up the bundle of towels. He refused to meet Owen’s eyes.
“I’m sorry too,” said Owen, as the rain outside spluttered to a close and Sufjan walked away.

In the library, Owen reinstalled himself behind the desk. He couldn’t help but fume slightly - not just because Grace still hadn’t come to relieve him, but also because of the man standing before him, abashed, but determined. Sufjan had his jaw set, and this time he looked Owen full in the face.
They’d spent the rest of the tour avoiding each other, on different orbits, carefully designed not to collide, and had parted ways without more than a muttered goodbye. There had been plenty of opportunity for Sufjan to approach Owen. They could have met each other in social situations, cast the encounter aside and grown close as friends. It would have been easy - Owen’s friends kept asking him if he knew Sufjan, talking about Sufjan and going to meet Sufjan and god, it was all fucking Sufjan wasn’t it? But the rejection - for that was what it was - irritated Owen so much that he decided it wasn’t worth any further effort. Forget his heart, it would have been frustrating to his brain. His neck, probably, as Sufjan’s sudden change in mood had nearly given him whiplash. And so it was infuriating to see Sufjan there in Sweetbay Library, his hands on the countertop.
“I’d like to borrow a book, please.”
It was like an absurd role-play, a show at normalcy. Something you’d practice in French class.
“Any book?” replied Owen, resolving to beat Sufjan at his own language workbook scenario game. “Sir, we have many books. It would help if you had a specific request in mind.”
Sufjan flushed.
“We’ll have to get you an account then,” Owen continued swiftly, rummaging for one of the forms. “Are you a Sweetbay resident?”
“No. I live in Michigan.”
“Sorry, this library is only open to Canadian residents,” Owen said, stacking the forms neatly and daring Sufjan to continue with his stupid game.
“That’s bullshit!” he protested. “You invented that rule, and you know it.”
“Oh really,” replied Owen sarcastically. “Would you, as an American citizen, let a Canadian border-hop and borrow all of your copies of the latest Harry Potter and take them out of the country? No, I don’t think you would. Why is it that Canada always has to be accommodating to you, and not the other way around?”
He tried to think of a way to extricate himself from the strange loop the two of them seemed to have found themselves in, play-acting a library scenario, when the door opened again. This time it really was Grace, but now Owen was too annoyed to be relieved.
His sister walked towards them, wearing a dress slightly too summery for the season (early summer with a brisk breeze). One side of her hair was wind-rumpled and she had a vaccination bandaid stuck to her upper arm.
“Well hello there, stranger!” she said, giving Owen a one-armed hug. “Sorry I’m late, you always have to spend far longer in the waiting room than you’d think possible.”
She turned to look at Sufjan.
“Oh I’m sorry - I’ll be right with you. Were you after something in particular?”
“Not really,” admitted Sufjan. “Just wanted a word with Owen, that’s all.”
“How did you even know I was here anyway?” Owen said with irritated realisation.
Noticing the friction between them, Grace grew interested. Owen could almost see her ears prick up. She had that look on her face - a slight smirk, as if she knew she was interrupting something and was enjoying doing so.
“Really Owen, aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” she admonished, giving Sufjan a closer look. “Well then, anyone who knows my brother well enough to know when he’s pretending to be me for a couple of hours is probably someone I should know.”
“I didn’t know,” Sufjan protested. Owen glared at him.
“I’m Grace, by the way. Owen’s older sister.”
“Oh. Um, yes. Sorry. I’m Sufjan.” They shook hands.
“Well, it was lovely to meet you Sufjan, but Owen probably doesn’t want to hang around here any longer, if his complaints about the library are any indication. So maybe you two would like to head out back and catch up properly?” She said with a pointed look at her brother. He couldn't quite tell if she were warning him or rescuing him from something, but she was definitely steering him. If nothing else, she’d at least ended the strange loop the two were stuck in - even if it came at the price of having to answer a million questions about Sufjan later.

“Would you like to tell me what this is actually about?” Owen said, as the two walked out the back door of the library, past the last reference and large print manuals, and into the grassy clearing beyond. He moved under the shade of a black maple, hoping the wind would die down.
“There’s not much to it,” Sufjan said. “I have a friend from Sweetbay, we stopped here, I decided to wander around the town. I never expected to see you.”
“Oh.” Owen said. “To be honest the idea of you stalking me was kind of…novel.” He paused, listening as the leaves above them rattled. “I suppose I would have liked it if you had wanted to see me.”
“Really? Because you didn’t seem that happy at all.”
Owen sighed. “Do you really want to know what I think?”
“I’m not entirely sure that I do, but go on.”
“I don’t know you very well, but I’d like to know you.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “But I’m too old for any kind of relationship or liaison or whatever you want to call it with someone who doesn’t know what he wants. I get it. Maybe you wanted a bit of time or we were moving too fast or whatever else - but I get the feeling that you’re scared. And I don’t want to do scared. I’m not a teenager. I’m not running a wildlife rescue. I’m not sure I can really nurture a person who’s not ready or willing to admit that they want something.”
Sufjan was quiet for a moment, resigned. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to feel that -“
“I just want to have this all out in the open,” Owen continued gently and firmly. “If you want this to be anything, I’m very happy to try. But I don’t want you to be ashamed.”
He waited for a response, looking over Sufjan to the parking lot, where a car with Maine number plates tried and failed to park between two pickup trucks. The resulting crunch shook him out of his reverie; with a start, he turned back to Sufjan, who refused to meet his eye, pointedly looking away at nothing. The corner of his mouth was turned down. With a spike of alarm, Owen realised that Sufjan was crying.
“Hey, it’s Ok, it’s ok!” Owen said soothingly, hoping that he wasn’t conveying his panic. “Look-“ he said, putting his hand on Sufjan’s shoulder and steering him towards the steps. “How about we sit down.”
He wasn’t sure what to do next, except to pull Sufjan towards him and cosset him as you would an upset child. Sufjan didn’t resist, but instead leaned into the other man, and Owen began absently stroking his hair, which seemed to soothe him. After a few minutes, the crying stopped, and Owen released his hold.
“Do you want to talk?”
Sufjan was quiet. Owen decided to continue.
“What are you worried about?”
“My faith,” replied Sufjan, after some hesitation.
“Oh.” Owen wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He racked his brains for whatever religious consolation he could think of, but it had been so long since he’d been anywhere near a church that he couldn’t think of anything to offer. “Well…uh, what about your faith?”
“Christians aren’t really supposed to be gay. Or bi. Or really anything except married and straight.”
Really? That certainly hadn’t stopped a lot of Christians in the past. Owen realised he probably wasn’t going to get anywhere with biblical arguments, as he was sure that someone as spiritual as Sufjan had probably considered every single one.
“But you’re always talking about loving men in your songs,” said Owen lamely. “And those men can’t have all been Jesus.”
Sufjan chuckled. “That’s true. But there’s a difference between loving someone and going so far as to have sex with them.” He suddenly became rather serious. “Is it wrong to - oh, why am I asking you, I doubt you’ve ever had this kind of conflict.”
“Well I do know the theological arguments. Most of them, at least,” Owen said. He suddenly felt a spring of inspiration and leaped up from the steps.
“Sufjan!”
“What?”
“Sufjan, nobody cares!”
Sufjan looked at him, his blue eyes wide and startled. He opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out.
“Look,” continued Owen impatiently. “Nobody cares. There’s too many things happening in the world for the church to seriously worry about who you have sex with. Nobody who knows you will care. Hell, you have an easy job for yourself - you’ve effectively outed yourself already! I guarantee that if you tell everyone that you’re gay tomorrow, people will either yawn, or they’ll say that they thought you’d already told them.”
“But -“ Sufjan finally managed to say, but Owen wasn’t finished yet.
“The church? The church! Hell, Pope Francis doesn’t even care anymore!”
“I’m not catholic!” protested Sufjan.
“Doesn’t matter!”
Owen wondered if he’d been too mean, but surely a little bluntness up front was better than hours of wheedling and coaxing. Wasn’t it? He desperately hoped that Sufjan wasn’t going to burst into tears again. His eyes did seem to be welling up.
“Ok, I’m sorry,” he conceded, sitting down again. “I suppose I thought that it was better that you hear it eventually.
It’s so easy to make your identity into this huge, terrifying thing, but in my experience of coming out - and I’ve been doing it for years - people often don’t mind much and often barely react at all. And it’s such a relief. You think that everyone will freak, but often, often - nobody cares, and you’ll wonder what all the fuss was about.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” muttered Sufjan, looking at the ground.
“Well Ok - fine, it is. But I’ve done it. I’ve been there. I wasn’t born with a sign on my head, you know.”
Sufjan stared resolutely at the tree in front of them. The wind had died down, and the sun was beginning to dip.
“Look,” continued Owen, “even here in Sweetbay, nobody would care. And nobody knows you here. Think of it like jumping into a pool - either you can wade in gradually, or you can just jump in and it’ll be a shock but you’ll get it over with and it’ll be fine. There’s no better place to just try it for a minute. I know it’s a small town but I guarantee that nobody would even notice.”
“Try what?”
“I bet you that if I made out with you in the middle of the street, no one would care!” declared Owen grandly. “In fact, that’s what we’re going to do right now!”
“What? No!” Sufjan protested, but Owen was already steering him around the side of the building and out the front of the library. He then stopped. Was he really going to do this? It began to seem as if he were being mean. Then he realised that Sufjan was waiting.
“Are you Ok with this?”
Sufjan looked around. Very few people appeared to be there. The driver from Maine had long-since left; a handful of people were leaving the Sobeys, but they were walking directly to their cars. Some kid was eating an ice cream. He looked back to Owen and nodded.
The situation was hardly romantic, but Owen dutifully began to kiss Sufjan. He tasted of salt, no doubt from all the weeping, but he responded with a passionate clumsiness, hungrily kissing Owen back. When they broke from each other they were quite out of breath.
“See?” Owen panted, as he looked behind him and saw almost no one, except a woman walking a pug, who acknowledged them with a friendly nod. “You just kissed me in the main street of Sweetbay and nothing happened.”
“Fine,” admitted Sufjan. “You win. But I still need some time to think about everything.”
“Take all the time you need. This can mean as much or as little as you want,” Owen said. “Now - I’d better go back inside; I think I left my violin in there and it’s kind of important.”

They traipsed back into the library. Grace was checking something on the computer, nearing the day’s close.
“I think you might have forgot something,” she said in an amused tone, handing the violin over the counter. “You know, Owen - it’s nearly closing time. Why don’t you play something?”
“Oh god, you’re like a Grandma at thanksgiving,” groaned Owen. “Why don’t you play something,” he echoed, in an elderly voice.
“You’re no fun at all,” Grace said, poking at him with one of the library’s tiny pencils. It was thoroughly inadequate for the task; she had to lean all the way over the counter in order to get anywhere near him.
“Hey Owen,” Sufjan said suddenly, with a grin. “I reckon you should play something.”
Ah, so he was getting his revenge, Owen supposed. Well, if Sufjan’s revenge for Owen dragging him into a public display of affection on the main street of Nowheresville Ontario was as simple as getting him to play the violin, so be it. At least he’d have the perverse pleasure of breaking the library’s silence.
He took the violin from the case and played a series of rippling notes; he hadn’t tuned up, but why bother? It was only a fraction off its ideal tuning.
“Do you want me to give you an A?” Sufjan said, raising an eyebrow slightly.
“What, for that wonderful performance?” Grace interjected.
“No, to help me tune the violin! No - no, I’ll be fine. I’m not putting in a concert performance here.”
He then proceeded to play the first thing he could think of, which was The Streets of Cairo. The sound of the piece filled the small library with visions of Egypt - or at least the highly inaccurate, orientalist Egypt of the silent film era.
There was a shuffle at the corner of Owen’s eye; he turned to see an elderly lady standing before him.
“Excuse me!” she said. “This is a library.”
“Oh, is it?” said Owen innocently. “I was wondering why all the books were here.”
The woman glared at him in a way that would have been more intimidating if she’d been any taller than the level of his bicep.
“Mrs Wilmington,” said Grace, “this is my brother Owen. He’s only in town for a couple of days - I asked him to play something.”
“Oh,” grumbled Mrs Wilmington. “Well I do hope it won’t be a regular thing. Call me traditional but I like my libraries to be quiet.”
“We’re closing in 15 minutes, Mrs Wilmington. Would you like to borrow anything?”
Grace looked towards her expectantly, and the two men dutifully moved out of the way.
“No thank you. I’ll be going now,” Mrs Wilmington said. She turned to Owen, who couldn’t bring himself to hide his smirk of amusement. “You’re a brat. ” She made a swipe at Owen and hit him on the arm. “But I remember being your age, so I’ll let it pass.”
‘Goodbye Mrs Wilmington,” said Grace pointedly. The woman took the hint and gathered up her string bag, stumping out of the little library before Owen had a chance to fully register what exactly had happened.
They were silent for a moment.
“Well that was something,” said Sufjan. “Is she always like that?”
“Always,” sighed Grace. “Here every Tuesday.”
“You’d better not make me mind the library again,” warned Owen. “I don’t want to keep facing the threat of violence from old ladies.”
Grace busied herself with putting away the last of the day’s things, doing totals and record keeping. “Well go on then, shoo!” she mumbled. “Library’s closing.”
“Wait a minute,” Sufjan interjected. “Weren’t you going to play something?”
“I did!” protested Owen.
“He’s right!” Grace said. “That doesn’t count. Play something properly. Play one of yours!”
“Fine, fine!” Owen said. “But I’ll have to actually tune the violin this time. Also, isn’t it just going to distract you from all your end of day stuff?”
“Play.”
And so, Owen played. He began with a new composition he’d been working on; at first working with the basic shapes of the notes, and then adding more and more flourishes. It felt like showing off, but he was in his element, playing the instrument that had been the backbone of his career and his life. He found he was no longer paying attention to his tiny audience, or the fluorescent-lit room in which he played. It was the marvellous sound of the notes themselves that captivated him - raw material with which he could do so, so much. He could tell so many stories, transport people in so many ways. He could create tension, fear, drama, or he could be uplifting and soaring. It was incredibly manipulative of him, he knew. He had with him an instrument that mimicked the most emotional qualities of the human voice - the sobbing of a broken man, the soaring sailing notes of a talented soprano, the scream of someone in danger. It was easy to make people feel something with a violin; sometimes, he felt as if he almost tricked himself into an emotion.
Before long, he’d flown through the whole variation. He took his bow away from the strings, and made a slight, self-conscious bow.
Sufjan and Grace were staring at him, their eyes as round and wide as coins. Grace refocussed first, and clapped enthusiastically.
“Wow. That was….” Sufjan eventually said. “That was like…a forest of a thousand larks.”
“I hope that’s good,” said Owen doubtfully, wondering whether larks even lived in the forest.
“Yes - of course it’s good!” Sufjan said emphatically. His eyes were nearly glowing, almost as if he were proud. “Remind me why I haven’t collaborated with you yet?”
Because we avoided each other, Owen thought to himself, realising that he couldn’t lay all of the blame on Sufjan.
“I don’t know - but we definitely need to make time for it now! Here - do you want to play something?”
He offered the violin to Sufjan.
“Oh no, no, I’m not so good at the violin,” he stammered.
“Alright then,” Owen said, taking his violin back and putting it into its case. “But next time - and there will be a next time - it’s your turn.”
“Well, then it’s all settled then!” declared Grace suddenly. “I’m nearly finished here, but you’re welcome to go on ahead. It was lovely to meet you, Sufjan,”
“Likewise,” said Sufjan, without taking his eyes off Owen. “Listen, I’d better go,” he said suddenly. “Should get back to my friend.”
“Here, I’ll walk you out,” said Owen, hoping that his sister wasn’t smirking. He was sure she’d noticed whatever it was between them, and he could only hope that she was going to hold in her familial winking and nudging until later.
He pushed the big cathedral-wooden doors of the library open, enjoying their noiseless weight. He held the door for Sufjan, who seemed reluctant to go through first. There was almost a stalemate in the doorway, but eventually Sufjan slipped through.
God he was beautiful, Owen thought. He had a nervous grace about him; something about the dark hair and pale eyes. Owen longed to reach out and touch him again, to touch his hair, hug him, feel him up, feel him react to his touch like he had before. To feel that Sufjan wanted him. Even just to hold his hand would mean a willingness, a reluctance to let things fade lightly away, as Owen worried they would. Some contact would be enough.
“Well,” said Owen, as they stood on the steps together, his hand growing slippery against his violin case. He searched for something to say but could only find vocal filler.
“It was - I’m so glad I saw you,” Sufjan said. “And your sister. And the library. And thank you - thank you for playing for me. Us,” he corrected himself.
“I’m sorry if I was too harsh,” Owen said.
“Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I really should go now.”
“Me too.’
They continued to stand there. Neither one seemed prepared to leave.
“Hey,” Owen said suddenly, talking Sufjan by the shoulder. He bought his mouth to Sufjan’s ear, and whispered, breathed -
“You’re adorable. And everything’s going to be Ok.”
A beat passed between them. Owen realised he had been gripping Sufjan’s shoulder; he relaxed his hand, but left it there, feeling the warmth of the man’s body through his palm.
Suddenly, swiftly, Sufjan leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the mouth. Then, before Owen could register the moment, Sufjan broke away, smiling.
“I think Sweetbay could get used to us.”

Later that night, backstage at the little theatre he’d be playing in, Owen took his violin out of his case, only for a scrap of paper to flutter out. He reached down and picked it up. It had Sufjan’s name and phone number on it, written at first in a careful hand, fading to a scribblier, more frenetic one. Owen realised that he must have slipped it in there while he’d been playing. Had that been the plan all along?
He thought back over the events of the day, wondering if he’d been the appropriate level of brutally honest, or whether he’d been mean. Whether Sufjan was using him as an experiment, and whether he should be worried. Whether it would last, or fizzle out. If more would happen, or if that would be it - a bizarre encounter in rural Ontario, just a stone’s throw away from the local Sobeys. The whole thing seemed faintly ridiculous, and Owen wondered why he was wondering so much about the millions of possibilities available to him, especially when he didn’t really know Sufjan all that well.
But there was something. Even if it were just in their shared desire to create; to produce their own forests of thousands of larks. To translate feelings into music, when they were too complex to put into words.
Owen put the slip of paper into his pocket, and hoped.