I latch it closed and throw on a leather jacket that looks expensive only because it’s worn out from being the only one I have. Through the doors of the hallway I can hear the people outside. People who came to drink, to talk, to find somebody to fuck, and just happened to be where I was playing my set. “Wow,” comes a low, strong voice behind me. A deep New York drawl obvious even in the single syllable. “That was a great set.” “I’m surprised you could hear it,” I say, not even turning around as I fiddle with the stuck zipper on my jacket. “I’ve got a good ear.” Frustrated with it, I give up on the zipper, pick up my guitar case, and turn around to face the growling voice. From its bass I’d have guessed its owner was big, but I’m still surprised – he’s a mountain of muscle, filling up almost the entire doorway, granite pecs and biceps obvious even through the thick fabric of his expensive suit. Between shoulders the size of a bridge his face looks like it was carved out of marble, brutal and beautiful.
