After The Song Ends

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This mic feels heavier tonight than it did last week. Funny how that works—the weight changes dependin’ on what truth you’re about to spill.

I adjust the height, clear my throat, and scan the crowd at Arlene’s. Same faces, same dim lightin’, same smell of bourbon and broken dreams. But somethin’s different tonight. There’s this guy in the corner booth—fine as hell, not gonna lie—nursin’ what looks like whiskey neat, and he’s actually listenin’. Not scrollin’ his phone, not tryn’a holla at the bartender, not starin’ at me like I’m meat on a stick.

Just… listenin’.