Disclaimer: Obviously don't own Once the musical or Once the movie and I don't claim to.

Part Two

"So are how things then?" The guy asked into the phone, leaning against the small desk in the tiny main room.

"Oh, they're grand," Da replied, voice crackling over the line. "Shop's doing well."

"And Barushka?"

"Grand."

"Well, grand," the guy said. They fell silent for a few beats. "I've been playing gigs here and there. Open mics and such." He didn't mention that the last gig had been at a snooty coffee shop in Brooklyn, where the other musicians played endless pseudo-folk music. It was open mic night and so, he'd not earned money. He wasn't sure when the next gig would be.

"Ah. And how is herself then?" Da asked.

"She's well. Working long hours, you know. Holiday season. Comes home cross."

"Getting on, you two?"

"We are," the guy said, tapping his fingers. "Wrote some new songs. Sent copies of the demo out to managers and record labels. We'll see what comes of it."

"Aye. Oh! I saw your girl the other day."

"And how is she doing?" The guy asked with real interest.

"Strong as ever. Showed me her new piano. Lovely. The baby's getting big, too."

"I'm sure. She can't be selling flowers on Grafton Street in this season."

"Ah, no. Billy gave her a job in his shop."

"Oh! Well, that's grand!" That was grand, bloody great. Surely Billy paid her more than selling flowers on the street and she would be surrounded by music. Plus, the girl could sell just about anything. She was better than some club promoters the guy had come across in his time.

He and Da hung up not long after. The guy returned to his guitar and his girlfriend's computer. He opened up a webpage and smiled a little.

Falling Slowly-252 listens

Leave-252 listens

When Your Mind's Made Up-175 listens

Gold--150 listens

Least someone was listening. When the weather was still nice, he set up with his guitar case on street corners and in parks. Made a decent amount, more than he had in Grafton Street. The tourists threw money in his case because they thought they had to. Women gave him their change from Starbucks because they heard his accent. Americans thought the accent was "cute," so he used it to his advantage whenever he could.

The accent was how he got the job at Crumbs Bakery last month, for starters. His manager claimed that it was "charming." His bartending job was more easily come by—and also because of his accent, though in a different sense. The pub was downton and it was the kind of the wood-paneled, dark, whiskey-serving place he remembered from Ireland. The customers were mostly Irish immigrants like him.

He shut the computer down and shuffled through some papers, scraps of chords and notes and lyrics scrawled across each of them. There was one that had some promise when he worked on it yesterday.

Once, once

Knew how to talk to you

Once, once

But not anymore

He heard the door unlock then swing open.

"Hi, love," he said.

The door closed. He looked up from the paper and saw his girlfriend pull off her puffy winter coat and throw it on the chair. She toed her shoes off, grimacing.

"Tough night?"

She pulled off her silly woolen hat, her brown hair stuck straight up with static, and shook her head. "You don't even know. I had this bitch of a customer. Jesus! It's not my bloody fault that she forgot her store credit card, is it? She just went off. Fuckin' eejit."

"Did you eat? There's Chinese takeaway left over."

She shrugged, sinking onto the couch. "I'm more tired than hungry. I thought you were working tonight."

"This morning at Crumbs. Tomorrow at the pub."

"Oh." She let out a yawn.

"Talked to Da. He says everything is grand."

"I haven't talked to my Mam in a bit," she said. "I miss Ireland. It's all hard graft here."

"It's hard in Dublin, too."

"I know. But it's home. Came here to get some adventure, to be independent."

"Away from me."

"Away from what I'd done," she corrected him. "I ought to get to bed. My shift starts at nine forty-five tomorrow morning." She peeled herself off the couch and into the bedroom.

# # #

"It has a beautiful sound when played," the girl said to a choosy customer. "It's not a Fender, I know, but it's better than that! Less expensive! Same sound! Good for you, no?"

The customer eventually agreed with her and bought the guitar. Billy, standing in the corner, shook his head at her, smiling.

"You're a beast, my dear." The bell above the door chimed again. She turned to greet the customer and her vague smile turned into a real one because it was Eamon from the studio.

"Hi Billy!" Eamon said. "Oh! Hello!"

"Hello! How are you?"

"I'm well. I've got a session musician who needs guitar strings. Have you got any?"

Billy went to the wall and pulled off packages of guitar strings. Eamon took three packets. "Grand. Thanks. Hey," he said to the girl. "I might need a piano player for a session. Would you like to do something like that?"

She hesitated. She was quite good on the piano now, even better now that she had the piano at home. The recording session had been fun, but it was fun because she had engineered it. It was fun because she had picked up this busker, ready to throw his guitar and his life away, and they had made beautiful music together.

"It pays pretty well per hour per session," Eamon was saying. "Can you read music?"

"Yes."

"Good! Would you like to try it? Just every so often."

She had chided the guy, months ago now, for giving up on his music so easily. She practiced every day, in the shop and at home, but who heard her, besides her mother and child and flatmates? She was a damn good pianist and money on the side would only help.

So she accepted Eamon's offer.