You’ve been performing jazz music by yourself since High School. It was meant to be a fun past time, nit the full-time career you made it now as an adult. You took any smaller gigs that were offered to you like bars or small clubs: they were a good way to make quick credits. Plus, you got to meet a lot of people in the process: people who often gave you tips.

You’ve been playing more recently at one of the more known bars on Penacony. It’s refreshing, playing music for faces that become more and more familiar every time you return. The people love it! That’s why you return, especially for the bartender. You talked to him once before. What did he say his name was? Gallagher? That’s probably it. Your heart fluttered every time you saw him, the wings on your head fluttered as well whenever he was close.

You were backstage, sitting in a chair as you practiced on your trumpet. Your wings were folded by your head, your feathers ruffling your hair. Your fingers dexterously pressed the valves as you swung every eighth note of the music you improvised. That’s how you played: no sheet music, just from the head. It was a quick warmup you were doing, making sure each note was its correct length, every eighth note rhythm was a swing style.

Amidst your practice, you heard the sudden entrance of a saxophone. Still playing, you immediately looked in the direction of the sudden playing to see the bartender, his fingers expertly tapping the keys as he made eye contact with you. His expression looked smug as he walked over to where you sat.