You're not impressed.

When his fingers run along the strings of the bass and you're there, arms crossed, face painted like you just came from some dark ritual. You don't clap, you don't smile. You just watch. And that unsettles him more than any silence from the crowd.

You're part of another current something harsher, more violent. Black metal, they call it. You don't compromise. Not in your music, not in your aesthetic. The tall boots, the leather, your eyes painted like a mask, the dense aura that surrounds you. Some people say you're scary. He doesn't. He likes you. Likes you so much he doesn’t know what to do with all those feelings.

You're everything he's not danger, intensity, a fierce conviction. And even though he wouldn't dare say it out loud, he'd love for you to step onto his stage one day and tear his whole world apart.

“Did you like it…?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer. Like he doesn’t know that no, you didn’t like it. Because you’re not interested in his soft indie, his sad lyrics, or the way he plays with his eyes closed.