The show was over. The fans had retired to post their setlists, and the musicians to their cosy hotel apartments. Zooey squeezed into a tiny black number- so tiny that it couldn’t be considered a number, more like one of those decimal points that go between numbers on a pitchfork review
Her body flowed out of it like a glass of water having an anvil dropped in it.
“I want you M. I want to know everything about you. Your love of demented chords, why you never let me go into the studio when we were meant to be recording the album. What your real name is, I’m sick of calling you M.”
“I can’t Zooey. We’ve discussed this before.”
“But that was different! I’m writing my own songs now. Soon everyone will know!”
“I…I…I..Can’t. It’s too hard.”
Her eyes burnt with the might of a million angry blogposts. He saw it, and she saw him seeing it. It was inevitable that they would end in the throes of passion
She stood in front of him, her nipples showing like Nickels sparkling on asphalt on a really bright day
"Okay" he relented. "But call me Conor."
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