You meet a girl at a bar. Here’s how it goes.

You came for the gig straight after work because that’s your deal. You work, listen to some music, sleep, repeat. Sometimes you don’t eat but you do your three albums a day like musician does practice. So you go to the gig. Alone. Like always. In any case you don’t want to talk to people in general and especially not when someone is playing.

It’s a good act. A singer-songwriter with a full band. You wish you were like them, but it’s alright. You have other ways of contributing to the world, perhaps not as beautiful but it’s there all the same. The people at the bar are loud, clicking pictures and doing half bro-hugs and making promises to meet that they’ll never fulfil. But it’s just the noise that bothers you. Human voices are treble and that’s messing up the guitar in the mix. But you aren’t the kind who speaks up. You stay quiet and try hard to concentrate on the rhythm section, and your body grooves with it. You get a drink, then another, then another, and you feel nice.

You’re leaning against the bar because your bag is in the way of everyone and you’re tired of saying sorry every time someone drunk bumps into it. There you are, nursing your drink which is now mostly water because all the ice melted.

That’s when you see her.

She’s pretty, like most others at the bar. For a moment you reflect on your messed-up hair and the fact that your shirt is creased. But that’s okay, no one came for you anyway. You try and sneak a glance at the guitarist’s pedalboard to see where the compressor comes in the chain when you feel a bump.

It’s her. She’s been dancing. She stepped on your toes. You pull your foot away when she turns with a flourish, brown hair swinging in their majesty as she looks you straight in the eyes and says sorry. You nod. She says she’s extremely sorry. You do a thumbs up. Then she turns away.

Pretty, like everyone else at the bar.

The compressor is at the end of the chain. Strange, you think.

She bumps into you again and gives you a look. You decide to make space for her and ask her if she wants to move ahead. She says it’s very sweet of you and moves right next to you. You feel exposed, naked, and can’t hear the mix. Her loud friends keep calling out to her but she says she’s gonna get a drink first.

“What’s good here?”

You don’t respond because you think the question is for the bartender. But it isn’t. She’s asking you. You, with the cheapest straight whisky on the menu.

“Um..” you say, searching. You are suddenly conscious of the sweat on your brow. The place is crowded after all. “In this weather, I suppose you’d have a gin” you manage. It’s what you would do if you weren’t just trying to get bombed and listening to the music.

She nods happily. “Good choice”, she says. “Tanqueray or Bombay Sapphire?”, she asks. Oh boy. This is jeopardy.Like the game. And the situation. You can’t tell the two apart. You toss a coin in your head and tell her that Bombay Sapphire has the prettier bottle. She smiles wide at this, and orders one. “One for you?”, she asks.

“Nah I’m good” you say, out of habit. But then you decide to go for one. “Alright, miss.”

“Miss! That’s so cute, “ she says. You don’t have a response. The bartender arrives just in time to save you and you clink glasses.

“Do you know the band?” she asks. You do, actually. But they don’t know you. “Yeah, I’ve heard some of their stuff.” you say. Standard response, yes?

Now they have to set up again for the next part of the set. Silence ensues and bro-hugs and squeals run aplenty. She’s looking at you, the rest of her friends too engrossed in flashlight selfies that will turn out terrible. You have to make small talk. You down the rest of your drink and tell her that gin and tonic was invented in India by British soldiers looking to fight malaria. “Wow, you’re a geek!” she says and you’re relieved. Perhaps she’ll leave. But she doesn’t. “What do you listen to”? she asks.

“Um..” you stammer.

In a moment of brightness, you ask her what she listens to. It’s all you know after all. “Everything!” she says, happily.

Wow. For real?

“I would describe my taste as eclectic,” she adds. You nod in approval when she asks you to come out for a smoke. You quit a while back but decide to go anyway, spellbound.

You pop a chewing gum as she lights her smoke. “Don’t smoke?” she asks. “Nah, just doobs” you reply, earnestly.

“You wanna come over and smoke with me later?”

Double-take. Did she just ask you out? Time slows down and the noise fades away as you evaluate. A doob with a pretty girl who listens to everything. What could go wrong?

“Alright” you say. She smiles and takes you by the hand, back into the gig. You’re sweating more than usual. She insists on a dance and you do the bare minimum groove that you can do with a bag, a bad back, and two left feet. She laughs, clear, musical.

Not too bad.

Half an hour later she asks you to open the doors to her house because she doesn’t feel like it. You feel the grooves on the keys and open up. It’s a nice place, smells like flowers and marijuana and perfume. You sit on the sofa but she wants to lie down in her room. You comply and walk in, carefully sitting on the edge. She lies down and pulls over a pillow, shaking her shoes off. She’s pretty alright. You wish you had combed your hair.

“Let’s play something” she says, pulling her hairband out.

“I have Uno in my bag. You stack fours?” you ask.

Like an idiot.

“No silly, I meant music.”

Oh right. Of course. “You listen to everything, how about you start?” you ask.

Everything. Everything. She takes the speaker and you hear it beep as it makes a connection to her phone, oddly poetic.

Everything.

Tame Impala plays first. It reminds you of your ex. But it’s a good band. It’s not the first good thing your ex has ruined. You groove out and make small talk about your jobs . You silence her during the solo.

Everything. She plays LCD Soundsystem next.

MGMT.

Cigarettes After Sex.

She leans closer. You want to start talking about shoegaze but better sense prevails.

Radiohead’s Creep. A warning bell sounds in your head but it is silenced by her whisper. “Your turn”, she says, her breath landing on your ears which turn pink.

Everything.

You begin with some Neutral Milk Hotel and talk about the Holocaust. She moves a little further away.

Everything.

You play some Husker Du, telling her about punk and antifa. She pulls the pillow under her.

Everything.

You now start with Lift Your Skinny Fists Like Antennas To Heaven.

By the time the the minor chord change comes, she’s half asleep.

Everything.

You play some Quicksand. Then you play Failure, your breakup soundtrack, and look at her. She’s asleep, hand close to yours.

You play some Darkthrone just to check. Transylvanian Hunger, cold and true. She’s fast asleep. You find your own self in the bleak tremolo picked guitar recorded on a four-track, blast beats lulling you to inner peace.

Everything, she said. You get up quietly and cover her with a blanket. No doobs, nothing. You quietly turn the light off and leave. While exiting, you spot the Coldplay poster.

Everything, she said. Why must people lie, you ask yourself. In the cab, you put on some Deafheaven on the earphones and ride home, elated and depressed, happy and sad, confident and lonely. The orange light pass you by and when you close your eyes, you see the pink of the album cover.

Everything, she said. Maybe it’s your fault. In any case, it doesn’t matter now. You turn up the volume to as loud as your ears can take it, and then one step higher.

You wonder what Tanqueray tastes like. You fall asleep to George Clarke screaming about death, and dream of a crowd that boos you as you stand on stage, guitar in hand.

Everything, they say.