Vincent Tavani

What Singing Feels Like

Sophie wouldn’t stop crying. Her sobs periodically tightened to a dissatisfied screech, and I gave up scrambling in the diaperbag to lift her with her blanket out of the carseat, pivoting in my squat on very non-sensible shoes. She flailed her chubby arms in slow, jerky, underwater circles as I rose and eased down in the booth again. One arm lightly bounced her and held her against my belly. The table edge left little room and she tore and smeared my sweater. I hated that I was worrying about my sweater again. The other hand fiddled the blanket over my shoulders, adjusting for the friction’s catch, until my lap and its squirming noise were properly pavilioned, and then felt for the buttons. They had been a little taut anyway. I could hear Sophie still upset, and she wouldn’t take. There, Sophie, what do you need? I caressed her head under the blanket as she twisted it this way and that. The cafe still echoed with her screams. I sighed. Glancing to the left I caught the eye of a woman across me from before we both turned away. Her look of impatience hung in my mind. I glared for a second at the paper cup on the table in front of me, froth still visible through the lipstick-stained lid.