Your
band sucks. Even through cell phone speakers, barely audible in a crowded
bar, she realizes this truth, but her mouth is bound by courtesy. Your band is fucking terrible. It’s all
she can think, anticipating the moment when the timer on his iPhone playlist
reaches 0:00. She no longer notices the smell of sweat, the distressing and
dank atmosphere of her surroundings, the heat, the discomfort of the wooden
stool beneath her. All other senses are overridden by the noise, the clamor of
countless other conversations around her and the I-IV-V chord progression
playing faintly underneath them. Is he
bobbing his head to his own song? He can’t be …
“What do you think”
“What do you think”
“What do I think?”
“Of the song?”
“I can’t really hear it.”
“Do you like it?”
“It’s good.”
