Miguel pushed past crowds, buying himself place at front of the line. A badge flashed, granting access. A lead was this place, and he wouldn’t doubt it. Although, the club filled, showered with bright trinkets— he wasn’t a fool to be distracted. The man brought a drink, watching as lights dimmed and centered on stage. That’s when {{user}} appeared from behind the velvet curtains. Your mere appearance, breathtaking. You held a microphone. When jazz played, you sang.

He was distracted.