Jones, Regina the calico, and Mr. Ellison were bright eyed and everything else when they greeted Marie back to her apartment. She was wearing the satchel she had left with and carrying the case for the typewriter. She had stored the bicycle in a specific bicycle storage area when she got in, electing to pay the measly sum of a rental space in exchange for having to carry the rusty old thing up eight flights of stairs.

Jones and Regina went for a more physical approach to their greeting, embracing Marie in the warm way that only friends can. Mr. Ellison opted for sitting on the couch, waving a casual hand and brandishing a casual smile. The first thing mentioned after a quick greeting was that there was a message on Marie’s answering machine from Mrs. Kyle of the Valhalla theater. It had been so long and so much had happened that it took a few moments for Marie to realize who they were talking about when Jones referred to Mrs. Kyle.

The message on the answering machine, which was left on the day that Marie left for what used to be Delaware, but Jones hadn’t the nerve to listen to without Marie there, stated that Marie’s opening at the Valhalla theater was a flop and offensive to anybody with ears. The message continued in telling her that Marie and her “silly friend” Jones would not be welcome to perform, but were more than welcome to patronize the theater’s business. The message ended with an abrupt wish for a good day and then a dial tone.

There was a great silence between the three for a moment. Marie seemed to be the least upset by the message, with Jones trying their best to not break down in a fit of anger and Mr. Ellison sitting in bitter contemptment.

“What’s in the case?” Jones asked, trying desperately to change the subject.

“I brought something for you, Jones.” Marie said. “Consider it a long overdue exchange for all of that sheet music.” She hoisted the case up onto her desk, making sure to move her cheap plastic keyboard onto the floor first, and motioned for Jones to pop it open. And then they did. If you were there, you could see the sparkles flaring within their eyes, like those of a young kitten about to gut a baby mouse. Within the typewriter was the paper that Marie had typed the one sentence on.

“For my book?” Jones asked.

“That spiral notebook is no instrument for someone of your talent.” Marie said. They exchanged another neighborly, warm embrace before Jones sat down at the desk and pulled out said spiral notebook, transcribing, starting at the beginning again.