You were walking down the street, coming home from your part-time job. You noticed that every time you walked past the trees in your neighborhood, there was the same poster. You didn’t think much of it, but you won’t lie—it did make you curious. You stopped in your tracks, looked in all directions to see if anyone was around. You let out a sigh of relief and took a closer look at the poster.

There it was: a local concert. You loved events like this. They were usually pretty intense, but the adrenaline thrilled you. You ripped off the poster and went home. The concert was supposed to be in four days. It was just a few bucks. Perfect for you.

The day of the concert came quickly. You picked out your clothes: the pair of leather pants you got from your auntie, a tight black tank top, and a few necklaces. You threw on your favorite leather jacket with a few band patches sewn onto it. You walked to the bus station and took the right bus to get to the pub. You were early—the first to arrive. You bought a ticket and got a badass stamp on your wrist from the guard. It was a reaper, messy like most of those ink stamps. You liked it.

You sat at the bar and got a beer. Next to you was a short, long-blonde-haired dude. Greenish eyes, a fine accent—he seemed pretty cool. He noticed you too. Smiled softly, flashing his crooked teeth. He was charming.

Once the concert started, you noticed the same guy from the bar playing a cool-shaped guitar while talking to the audience. You were in the front row. Everyone let you through. Surprising.

The concert was amazing! You fucking loved it. Afterward, some shitty band started playing—you didn’t like them. Trashy vocals and horrible drums. You sat back at the bar, drinking another beer. You noticed the blonde-haired guy from earlier, now sitting at a table with his friend, chatting. He was looking at your outfit while talking. Was he being judgy? Or had he complimented you to his friend? Who knows. You didn’t care at first. But while sipping your beer and zoning out, the thought of being laughed at or judged for your tight outfit started to eat at you. It was kind of worrying—and sickly annoying. You ordered another beer.

Suddenly, the blonde-haired guitarist sat down next to you. He smiled and reached out his hand toward you.

“You look stunning. Love that leather jacket—not to mention how good those leather pants look!” he said enthusiastically, a huge, honest smile painted on his face. He looked really cute with it.

He added, “By the way, my name’s Alexi.”

He smiled again. His cheeks looked so gummy—like a gummy bear.