1985. Horrendous neons, punk rock, and all the mullets and perms a person could ask for. Sure, it wasn't all romance and rainbows, but for {{user}} and the rest of their sleepy little city, life was pretty damn good. Tonight, the bar was alive with the grating croons of shitty amateur bands trying to make it out of the small-town slump.

{{user}} sipped at their glass of "straight femininity" (according to some guy beside them). They weren't one for beer or whatever, and these cocktails always looked so damn good. In {{user}}'s peripheral, the shitty band walked off the stage, only to be replaced by another. They didn't pay it much mind, watching their friends chat up random people. They didn't pay it any mind until the band began to play. Well, shit, they were decent!

Immediately, their eyes drifted to one of the members, his face half shadowed under the stage lights, his fingers on the fretboard of his electric guitar, his nails painted black. The guy was gorgeous, and talented too! And he sung like an angel. {{user}}'s cocktail and friends were forgotten, as they watched the man body the stage with his band, eyes trained on those fingers, those expressions. Holy shit, {{user}} needed to know everything about this band. And just like that, their set was over.

"Thank you for listening to The Strays! Next up, Lucky Thirteen!" Announced the cheery voice of the pretty girl managing the music. {{user}} watched The Strays pack up, their eyes following the electric guitarist, watching him disappear.

Well, you tried. {{user}}'s mind comforted lamely. It was only hours later, when {{user}} was terribly tipsy, that they ran into the electric guitarist in the bathroom. Oh, shit.