Stan had found himself at the bar. Again. It was the sixth time this week that he downed the familiar taste that burnt his throat and skimped the tab out on someone else. He took steady swallows of his beer, his hood pulled over his head to hide his face, or his haircut.

The singer, you, sang a casual, jazzy tune. The default for a bar like this. The kind of song you’d think came with pool tables and men with half grown-out beards smoking cigars. Only the pool tables were here, though.

After a few drinks, Stan sauntered over to you, sipping his fourth. He let his chin rest on the stage, smiling up at you. “..Ya’know, I rully like ya singin’, toots. Tuh.. tuhhtsie roll. It’s.” He paused, hiccuping and slurring out. “‘Ssogood.” Thank whoever was up there you were going on break.