He scooted up in bed and put one hand behind his head. You’re funny, he said. Do you kn-know that?

On nights when she and her friends tromped from club to club, laughing and stumbling and holding each other up, she felt funny. When she made them snicker over eggs at some diner the next morning, she felt funny. But most of the time she felt like a wisp of cloud.

The man’s arms were spindly, and he was losing his hair. She’d been so excited by the way he played trumpet that she’d darted backstage after the show, past the dressing rooms and tubs of beer to tell him how he’d made her feel like bubbles were popping under her skin.  

The trumpet player’s bedroom was filled with comic books, stacked on the dresser and stained carpet. Soy sauce packets competed for space with crusty batteries and soda pull tabs on the side table. A drum set stood in the corner with sweaters draped on the snare.

She climbed off him and laid her head on the pillow. What did you want to be when you grew up? she asked.

The man sat up and fumbled in the pocket of his pants in a pile on the floor. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and knocked it against the ball of his hand a few times. He opened the pack, removed the foil, rolled it into a ball and flicked it across the room. He held the pack out to her. She shook her head. The man lit a cigarette, leaned back against the pillow, and exhaled through his nose.

I w-wanted to be a bronc rider, he said. My brother and I went to the rodeo every summer. W-wide hats and belt buckles. He looked at her. D-don’t laugh.

I wanted to be a ballerina, she said, not laughing. Like the Nutcracker. Pointe shoes and leotards and leaping.

The man ashed into a dented Pepsi can. And?

She shook her head again and asked him if he’d always loved horseback riding. The trumpet player took a long drag. Never tried it. But I loved those guys’ ability to hold the crowd in rapture. To slow our breaths. What about you, b-b-ballerina?

The girl contemplated a ripped poster of Dizzy Gillespie. She imagined slicking her hair back into one of those tight buns. She imagined packing her practice bag with sweatpants and cream to cool sore muscles. Dancers are in control, she said. They know who they are. She glanced around. Where’s your trumpet? She propped herself on one elbow. Play me a song,

The man spit into the can, slipped his cigarette butt inside, and shook it until it sizzled. He threw off the sheet and pulled his trumpet case off the floor. He took out the instrument and stood in front of the drum set holding it aloft like he did in the club. Then he closed his eyes, put his lips on the brass, and blew.