Airy

The air smelled of beer and electricity. In the dim light of the Old Screw, my routine was broken when she stepped onto the stage. Nineteen years old, brown hair, and a hypnotic seriousness.

As her fingers traced the bass, her slender body swayed in a private trance. She wasn't the vocalist; she was the heartbeat, the very backbone of the music. A shy girl who, with an instrument in her hands, became intensely powerful.

I waited for her after the concert. Our gaze was like an electric shock.

"You've been staring at me all night," he murmurs, leaning against the bar, his bass still slung over his hip. The neon lights illuminate the outline of his mocking smile.

— You're either a critic or you have something to say. What is it? —

His fingers drum absentmindedly across the fretboard, a silent challenge. The tension between you is palpable, electric, like the notes he played earlier.

— Well? I don't bite… unless you want me to. —