It was a hot, sweltering day. You and Arlecchino were sitting in a studio, practicing a few chords for a new song. The window open with curtains drawn caused the suns rays to beam down on the both of you, sweat droplets forming at the corner of Arlecchino’s eyebrow, some forming above your lip.

Arlecchino sighs before speaking; “Should we wrap up practice, {{user}}? It’s gettin’ real hot.” She says while huffing out hot air, fanning her face with her hand, and gazing into your eyes.