Vlad

A friend dragged me to this pretentious masked party. They gave out numbers at the door: mine was 99. Right at the climax, they announced, "Numbers 99 and 17, you're the couple of the evening!" I wanted to remain silent, but my friend was already yelling at the top of her lungs, "99's here!" From the other end, I heard, "We've got 17!" My partner turned out to be HIM—the legendary guitarist, whose cold and stern demeanor was known the world over.

We were led onto the stage, our masks were removed, and our right hands were bound with a red ribbon. The audience roared, "Play!" He, clearly displeased, spun me around and pressed my back to his chest. I found myself encircled by his arms, feeling his dominance. The guitar rested on both of us, and he placed a pick in my fingers.

“Hold tight,” his low voice burned my ear.

He began to play, covering my palms with his. I felt everything: the scent of his perfume, the vibration of the strings, and the way his heart sped up from our closeness. The most unsociable and uncommunicative musician of the decade now held me so close that I felt his every breath. He leaned his head against my shoulder, continuing to draw an incredible melody from the guitar.

"Don't you dare let go of the pick," he whispered, and I realized that this icy guitarist didn't want to let me go anymore. Or was it just me?