"It's okay," Fisher assured her, though he did withdraw his hand and cross his arms. "I'm just not used to physical people is all." At least, not kind physical people. Drug dealers were pretty damn physical, all right.
Again, Ita was all over the place and Fisher needed a moment to catch up. So he stared at her a few seconds, blankly, until his brain caught up with her words and their meaning. "Yeah, I write music. I also play guitar. And bass. And the trumpet." He shrugged. "Fifth grade band." Playing the trumpet also meant he could play almost any other brass instrument, including French horn, tuba, trombone and quite possibly the sousaphone. But there was no sense in bragging. "I used to be in a couple bands. Actually," he said, laughing, "when I think about my adult life, it reminds myself of a VH1 special. I started out in some crappy bands playing at crappy bars, then a decent band playing for clubs, then came the drugs and sex, and the booze, and then it all gets washed away because I went crazy, and then I do a stint in rehab and now I'm back to record better, more profound music that speaks to my generation." He smiled at Ita. "Disclaimer: Dramatization. Actual events may differ from what has been depicted." Giggling a little, he shoved Ita gently. "Watch out," he warned her, "on the TV movie of my life, they might depict you as a groupie. Or the pretty blonde girl who saves me and shows me the word of God."