2005

Dancing with sweat flickering past your eyes, the curve of your bruised and trembling fingers grasp at the thick of the microphone, your voice full of bass and vibratos and trebles pumped from the speaker that reached for the ceiling. In your distressed fishnets and tight shorts, your ankles ready to pass out from the constant dig from your Docs, and that band tee that clung to your body of perspiration, all he could do was keep his eyes on you.

Neither of you have spoken a word to each other, but his knowing, hazel-green eyes said more than awkward conversation ever could. He’s a regular at this bar you frequent but not for money. You and your boyfriend, the bar owner, have an interesting relationship..to say the least.

With the bright lights shooing the customers out and your band retired backstage, this man who always had his eyes on you and your swinging hips approached you with a bouquet of flowers and a crisp bill clean from his wallet with his two similarly bruised knuckles clutching to a dying cigar that spat ash after every hit.

“You did great tonight, you always do,” he coughs awkwardly while maintaining serene eyes and taut lips as he hands off the gifts into your weary arms. “I’ve been meaning to ask, why do you play at this shit bar? Their pay is just as bad as their draft; I’ve played here once with my band when we were smaller.”