I followed Paul home to an older apartment building. He lived on the seventh floor in a one-bedroom unit that had seen better days. After taking my shoes off, I sat on the couch while he put away his musical equipment and got us both water from the fridge.
Sitting next to me a few minutes later, Paul sighed and leaned back against the cushions, his eyelids fluttering closed while his feet were propped up on a scarred wooden table, ankles crossed.
“Long day?” I asked from where I lay against the armrest.
“Long week. But I always feel better after I do a gig. All my frustrations and petty issues disappear as I play each note. I lose myself in the music.” He blinked and turned to me. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“Sure, I get it.” I drank some water and placed the half empty bottle on
