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Prompt: Makin' Whoopee (Azul Ashengrotto X Reader) - > Azul makes an investment without fully thinking through the fallout. Requisitioner: Townie! Warnings: None! Words: 5295! A/N: Hello everyone! Commissioner 'Townie' has given me permission to share their product, requested over on my ko-fi! They ordered one 1000 word slot (4295 given as a bonus!) with a request that I explore Azul's characterization a bit with a reader who works as a musician in the Mostro Lounge . It was an honor to work with them and flesh out the prompt :) If you would like to submit a commission of your own, feel free to check me out HERE! If you'd like to learn about my medical journey, view my rates, or learn why I'm accepting commissions. Click: HERE!

Saturday nights have become your most reliable currency.

Not the sort you could fold into your pocket and forget about until a rainy day, exactly. This kind weighed more than that. It came in the form of a respectable hourly wage, a jar for tips that always seemed to fill faster than you expected, and the quiet satisfaction of knowing you were making ends meet without having to beg Crowley for another allowance adjustment. You had already done the math the moment he handed over your budget for the term, penciling every expense into a ledger with the kind of focus usually reserved for exams and grave injuries.

It was tight. It was workable. Grim ate more than he admitted, you ate less than you should, and Ramshackle stayed standing through a mixture of stubbornness and extreme cuponing. At least the shelter was free and your meal pass allowed three-square portions at the cafeteria Monday through Friday.

So you could not complain.

After all, you had Saturdays.

And if you were honest, Mostro Lounge had become one of the more reliable pieces in the whole precarious arrangement.

Not because you trusted the establishment, Far from it.

It was still Azul Ashengrotto’s domain, which meant every polished surface and velvet curtain probably concealed some layer of intent you had not yet uncovered. The first time he approached you, it was under the guise of business. Azul wanted a waiter, he said, someone who could help him with marketing strategies from your world. Something practical. Something profitable. You had given him a few offhand suggestions, mostly because it was easier than explaining how odd it felt to be treated like a consultant in a place where you still sometimes forgot which fork was the correct one.

One suggestion had been a one-time karaoke night.

You meant it as a novelty. A little bait for the less sophisticated clientele, a harmless way to get students through the doors by making them curious enough to stay. FOMO, as your world would have called it. A crowd drew a crowd. Azul had looked at the idea as if he were already calculating the angle of it, the profit margin, the ripple effect. A moment passed and he agreed to trial both it and your consultation services.

He had been right to.

The karaoke night went over far better than anyone could have predicted. Better than you expected. Better than you had any business taking credit for.

And then, after the event was over and the lounge was still buzzing with the afterglow of amusement and spilled drinks, Azul offered you a new arrangement: sing for the lounge on weekends, and he would pay you handsomely for it.

You had stared at him, suspicious from the start, because no offer that was convenient ever stayed innocent for long.

Maybe he wanted leverage. Maybe he wanted another ally close enough to use and clever enough to keep useful. Maybe he decided you were a good investment and planned to collect whatever dividends he could squeeze from your presence. Maybe it was as simple and irritating as the fact that your name now drew attention, and Azul learned very early that attention was its own kind of resource.

You never did settle on an answer.

In the end, it did not matter.

The money was too good to refuse, and the one rule you set for yourself was simple: do not mess up. Not once. Not when the pay was this generous, not when the tips were this good, not when the arrangement already made you and Grim familiar enough with Octavinelle that the staff recognized you on sight.

Six days out of seven, you spent some portion of your life here now. Waiter. Consultant. Now, entertainment.

Enough that the other students started to know your face.

Enough that Grim had a running tab that only seemed to replenish every week after being paid off.

Enough that Azul Ashengrotto had your schedule memorized. The Leech twins met you at the same time every evening after class. Six out of seven days. If you weren’t careful, Sunday could be covetted.

The week before now, and many into the arrangment itself, Azul called you into his office and asked you to prepare something new for this Saturday. Not just a cover, not another standard set he could slot into the evening alongside the usual promotions. He wanted something unique.

Something that would, in his words, give people a reason to come back for years.

And before you had a turn to speak, he offered triple your usual rate. One night only.

You had stared at him, measured his tone, and decided immediately that he was underbidding you on purpose.

It was a lie, technically, but a useful one. You told him songwriting took time. That an original set could not be rattled out like a class assignment or a snack order. That if he wanted something fresh enough to trigger the kind of curiosity he kept talking about, he would have to pay for the privilege.

Six times your usual rate, you told him.

He had not even blinked before countering at five.

And because you knew exactly how much he enjoyed appearing unruffled when he was, in fact, negotiating, you had taken the offer.

Done deal.

—

Now, on the day itself, the whole thing sat in your chest like a stone.

You were in Mostro Lounge before the crowd thickened, standing in Azul’s office with the door shut behind you and the faint hum of the restaurant bleeding through the walls. It was the first time he trusted you alone in here, which was either a sign of confidence or a sign that he had already hidden anything incriminating, breakable, or embarrassing out of sight.

Probably all three. You were still acutely aware of how out of character this trust was, even if you’ve spent nearly every day together.

His office was tidy in a way that felt unnatural for someone with vanilla envelopes stacked to the ceiling some nights. Nothing out of place. Nothing obvious. The desk had been cleared, the shelves aligned, the papers arranged with a precision that made your shoulders tense on principle. Even the air seemed curated, all salt and polish and expensive cologne and that faint aquatic coolness that always clung to Octavinelle.

You stood in front of the mirror and adjusted your outfit one more time.

Perfect.

When you stepped out of the office and into the corridor leading toward the stage, the lounge was already stirring. Glassware chimed softly behind the bar. Chairs scraped over the floor. A few students had begun to drift in, curious and laughing too loudly, their voices rising and falling in anticipation of whatever the evening would become. The aquariums lining the walls caught the light and threw it back in ripples of blue and green, turning the whole room into something underwater and dreamlike.

You had once thought that effect was meant to make the place feel elegant.

Now you wondered if it was meant to make people easier to trap.

Azul was at the bar when you passed, sleeves neat, posture perfect, expression carefully composed into the sort of customer-facing attentiveness that made him seem the benevolent, social owner.

He looked up as you came by, and for a moment his gaze settled on you with a sharpness that made your skin prickle.The mole aside his mouth pulled, his lip lifting briefly with acknowledgement. Or a warning to succeed, you weren’t certain which under the mood lights.

He did not stop you.

Did not speak.

You never could truly pinpoint what was going on in his head. So you looked onwards before he could preen into yours.

—

You took your place near the stage and breathed out slowly.

The set was ready. The room was filling. The pay was good, the crowd would be worse before it got better, and somewhere in the back of your mind the shape of the song you had chosen waited to be let loose.

You were not a songwriter. You had told him that honestly enough.

But you knew how to borrow.

You knew how to take something from another world and give it a voice in this one.

You knew how to stand under warm lights and pretend you were not aware of every pair of eyes turning your way. Your voice could dance with the fishes swimming their paths in the walls.

And whether Azul’s reasons were business, strategy, vanity, or something far more dangerous than any of those, none of it mattered once the room went quiet enough to hear your name.

Your fingers flexed once at your sides, breath cold in your chest as you breathed through your stomach.

Then, the lights dimmed and you were swimming with the fish.

—-Azul’s Pov—-

Saturday evenings had developed a fresh rhythm to them.

By seven o’clock, the first wave of customers arrived in clusters; students riding the edge between dinner and entertainment, eager for dim lights and expensive drinks they could pretend were worth the price tag. By eight, the Lounge settled into its performance. Glassware chimed. Waitstaff moved in polished currents. The aquariums painted wavering blue light across the ceilings and tables alike, softening the room into something dreamlike enough that people forgot to guard themselves carefully.

Azul cultivated that atmosphere deliberately after months of research.

People spent more when they were comfortable.

They spent even more when they wanted to linger.

Which was precisely why he had taken Jade’s position behind the bar tonight.

An owner involving himself with customers created trust. Familiarity. Prestige. A reminder that Mostro Lounge was not some dingy student-run café, but a carefully managed establishment overseen personally by Azul Ashengrotto himself. He greeted patrons by name when possible, remembered orders, laughed at jokes just enough to flatter without encouragement. The performance of hospitality had become second nature years ago.

Still, tonight his attention drifted.

To the hallway.

To his office door.

To the knowledge that you were inside it.

It should not have felt significant. You prepared there before while he finalized receipts or checked inventory elsewhere. The difference tonight was simple enough: for the first time, he left you in the room alone.

The realization made him spend nearly forty minutes beforehand ensuring there was nothing unfortunate left visible.

Contracts had been locked away. Coral Sea finance ledgers removed from the desk entirely. A cracked photograph from his childhood tucked deep into a drawer where no curious wandering eye could stumble upon it.

Then he tidied everything twice.

It was absurd behavior.

Azul knew it was absurd behavior.

Which only made him more irritated with himself.

The shaker hissed softly in his hands as he mixed another order. His smile never faltered when handing the finished drink across the counter, but the moment the customer turned away, his gaze flicked again toward the corridor leading to his office.

Your set would begin soon.

Before he could properly think better of it, he found himself reaching for another glass.

Cranberry juice first. Ginger ale second. A wedge of lime. Enough ice to keep the glass cool without numbing the throat. Non-alcoholic, obviously. You would never risk your voice before a performance, and despite what Floyd liked to claim, Azul was not trying to sabotage his own investment.

It was a practical gesture.

Entirely practical.

Singers often appreciated soothing drinks before performances. It calmed nerves. Protected the throat. Encouraged confidence. There was no reason for his pulse to stumble slightly as he stared at the finished Cranberry Ginger resting neatly on the counter.

Azul picked it up.

Paused.

Then immediately set it back down.

Absolutely not.

He could already imagine the scene too vividly: himself arriving at the office door personally with a carefully prepared drink in hand like some overeager admirer trying to curry favor. The thought alone sent embarrassment prickling hot beneath his collar.

Ridiculous.

Humiliating.

He straightened sharply and turned his head. “Jade.”

The vice housewarden appeared beside him with suspicious speed, as though he had been waiting for this exact summons. “Yes?”

Azul pressed the drink into his hand without explanation.

Jade glanced down at the glass. Then back up at Azul. His eyes pulled to preening slits.

A knowing sort of amusement that Azul was in no mood to entertain.

Azul’s eye twitched.

Do not.

Jade’s smile widened anyway, subtle and poisonous in the way only he could manage.

Azul fixed him with a stare sharp enough to cut glass.

I am not in the mood. If you’d like your legs to stay functioning, use them.

Thankfully, Jade understood him well enough to relent before Floyd inevitably noticed and made the situation unbearable. He inclined his head once and departed toward the office with the drink balanced carefully in hand, still visibly entertained.

Azul exhaled slowly through his nose and returned to work.

The Lounge had grown considerably fuller while his attention wandered. Reservations occupied nearly every booth from eight onward these days. Students who once mocked the establishment for being “pretentious” now waited nearly an hour for seating on Saturdays. Some came for the drinks. Some for the novelty.

Most came for you.

The thought settled unpleasantly beneath his ribs.

He buried it beneath motion. Another shaker. Another smile. Another practiced line of customer service polished smooth from years of repetition.

Then the lights dimmed.

Conversation softened almost immediately.

Azul looked up before he could stop himself.

There you were.

The aquarium lights behind the stage cast shifting blue patterns along your figure, softening the edges of you into something almost unreal. The Lounge uniform remained mostly intact, though altered in the small ways he permitted only on Saturdays: no fedora perched awkwardly atop your head, no waistwrap cinched stiff around your hips. You had adjusted the outfit for comfort rather than presentation.

And somehow, that made you more striking.

Azul continued shaking out the virgin lemon drop for a waiting patron, though the motion slowed slightly as his gaze lingered.

You’re perfect.

Not perfect in the way Azul understood perfection — not manufactured through relentless effort and careful calculation and exhausting self-correction until no flaw remained visible. Yours was something infinitely crueler because it appeared effortless. A kind of perfection born entirely from ease. From sincerity. From standing beneath the lights without seeming aware of how beautifully they touched you.

Azul had only discovered this side of you during karaoke night.

When you stopped trying so hard to be useful.

When you forgot to monitor yourself every second.

He envied it.

He wanted to devour such perfection, strangle it.

His throat constricts, necktie too tight, as your chest rises with one steadying breath.

The lights dim, and the shaker in his hands goes still.

–

“Another bride, another June

Another sunny honeymoon

Another season, another reason

For makin' whoopee”

—

It first began, as most things in Azul’s life did, as a transaction.

You were useful.

That had been the first and safest thing to call you.

A consultant from another world with unfamiliar ideas and enough desperation to make you cooperative. Your suggestions consistently increased sales in measurable increments; small changes in presentation, event structure, customer engagement. Techniques twisted from your world into something profitable for his own. You had a sharp instinct for what drew people in, even if you did not seem entirely aware of it yourself.

That alone made tolerating your eager-to-please disposition worthwhile.

You worked hard for praise. Harder for stability. Harder still for the reassurance that you were earning your keep in a world that had given you very little footing. Azul recognized the behavior immediately. He respected it in the same way one respected any useful instinct.

Then karaoke night happened.

And suddenly you were laughing under dim lights with a microphone in your hand, relaxed in a way he had not realized you were capable of. Your shoulders loosened. Your smile stopped looking careful. For a few fleeting hours, you forgot to monitor every expression before showing it to others.

Azul remembered standing near the back of the Lounge and watching customers watch you.

He saw the attention gather naturally around you, effortless as a tide pulling inward. People lingered longer at their tables. Ordered another drink. Stayed for “just one more song.” Even Floyd noticed the shift in atmosphere, though mercifully he described it as you being “kinda tempting to squish tonight” instead of anything useful.

Azul should have drafted a contract first.

He should have calculated projected profits, weighed labor costs, estimated turnout fluctuations, and considered long-term sustainability.

Instead, he approached you after closing and offered you a performance slot on Saturdays before he even settled on a proper number in his head.

Just impulse.

Even now, the memory irritated him.

Azul Ashengrotto did not make impulsive investments.

And yet he named a price on the spot and justified it afterward by telling himself this would become profitable eventually. That your performances would increase traffic, improve Lounge visibility, create demand. An investment. Nothing more.

Even though it was only one evening a week.

Even though your name should have meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. A grain of sand at the bottom of the ocean floor. Temporary. Replaceable. Small.

The absurdity was that the Lounge had begun orbiting those Saturdays anyway.

He is, after all, a benevolent man of his word.

—

“A lot of shoes, a lot of rice

The groom is nervous, he answers twice

Its really killin' that he's so willin'

To make whoopee”

—

You were there so often now that the week seemed to arrange itself around your presence.

Monday through Saturday, you became part of the Lounge’s bones: a familiar voice in the corridor, a familiar set of footsteps, a familiar shape moving through Azul’s carefully maintained little empire. And then Sunday came, and the absence of you made the day feel thin. Treacherous. Unprofitable in a way that had nothing to do with coin.

By the third week, the numbers had not changed enough to satisfy him.

Not yet.

But the cliental had.

That was worse.

Students who would have laughed at Mostro Lounge before, now drifted in under the excuse of curiosity, only to stay longer than planned. Tables that once sat empty now filled with faces Azul did not recognize. They came for novelty, for atmosphere, for the vague promise that something worth witnessing might happen if they happened to arrive at the right hour.

They came for you.

Azul felt the truth of it like a slow, bitter pressure behind his ribs.

Leona Kingscholar - ugh - had been the nail in Azul’s coffin.

The beast had strolled in with infuriating ease, all arrogance and familiarity, as if the Lounge were not Azul’s territory at all. As if he were not intruding. As if he had not sat himself down in one of the back booths with the lazy certainty of someone who knew he would be tolerated.

And then he looked up at you, watching with a fist pressed against his cheek. Legs crossed and half sunk into the leather cushions.

Azul had smiled at the table, bowed over the order, and kept his voice level while something sharp and ugly moved through him beneath the surface.

Leona did not even bother pretending he came for the menu. He ordered enough to flex his position, paid enough to be insulting, and touched none of what was brought to him. Instead, he sent it to Bucchi to collect after his shift bussing tables. Save for a seafood taster offered to Grim and a cover for the direbeast’s tab.

The money still ended up in Azul’s hands, but it felt dirty, as if the lion had smeared his fingerprints across the transaction just by being there and looking at you like that.

Azul understood jealousy. He understood rivalry. He understood the primal urge to take, to keep, to make something yours before someone else realized it had value.

What he did not understand was why it flared so violently now.

Whether Leona was only here to spite him, to test him, to bare his teeth from across the room.

Or whether he saw what Azul saw in you.

That awful, effortless perfection that had nothing to do with polish and everything to do with being unguarded in a way Azul had never been permitted to be.

The thought of Leona seeing that made something cold and possessive coil through him.

Azul could accept envy.

He could even accept wanting.

What he could not afford was the darker urge that followed close behind it: the desire to shut the doors, dim the lights, and keep every wandering eye from lingering on you too long. To bottle up your best expressions where only he could see them. To make the world smaller around you until no one else could reach what he had found first.

He could do it. Azul could do anything he dared to.

Yet he forced the tense lock in his fingers to ease, remain in control.

—

“Now picture a little love nest

Down where the roses cling

Picture the same sweet love nest

Think what a year can bring”

—

By the third month, Saturdays belonged to you.

Reservations filled the eight-to-midnight slots days in advance. Booths remained occupied from open to close. Students lingered near the entrance in hopes of cancellations, pretending they merely wanted drinks while their eyes kept drifting toward the stage.

Azul watched the profits climb exactly as he knew they eventually would.

His investment had paid off.

He should have been pleased.

More than pleased, really. Vindicated. This was what he did best: identify value before others noticed it, cultivate it carefully, and ensure it became inseparably tied to him. He could have easily framed it that way to you if he wished. Could have smiled that polished smile and explained how Mostro Lounge had refined you into something marketable. Something dazzling. A grain of sand transformed beneath pressure into gleaming glass art.

You would probably laugh awkwardly and thank him for the opportunity.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

Because if he truly wanted to maximize profit, he should push harder.

More performances. Advertisements. Word spread beyond NRC entirely. Merchandise, perhaps. Exclusive nights. Raise prices. Increase visibility. Make your name synonymous with Mostro Lounge until no one could separate one from the other.

And if your reputation became dependent on his establishment, then your future would naturally remain tied to Azul Ashengrotto as well.

A perfect business arrangement.

So why couldn’t he bring himself to do it?

Azul knew what pressure felt like. Knew what it meant to claw and claw and claw at yourself until every rough edge had been sanded down into something acceptable for others to consume. Greatness was not gentle. It devoured people whole. He spent years reshaping himself into someone worthy of admiration, terrified that if he stopped even briefly, everyone would remember the pathetic creature he used to be.

You somehow escaped that fate.

Or perhaps you simply had not realized it was waiting for you yet.

On stage, during those small stretches of time between songs and applause and nervous little smiles, you looked… easy. Untouched by the constant hunger to perfect yourself. Natural in a way that made Azul ache with envy every time he saw it.

And somewhere along the line, preserving that expression became more important to him than the money.

It was lunacy.

Actual insanity.

He should want to capitalize on you until there was nothing left untouched by his influence.

Instead, he found himself hiding the true reservation numbers from you because he feared what would happen once you understood exactly how many people came just to see you. Feared the pressure would settle onto your shoulders and sharpen you into something harder.

Less yours.

Less his to witness.

—

“He's washing dishes and baby clothes

He's so ambitious, he even sews

But don't forget, folks

That's what you get, folks,

for makin' whoopee”

—

Azul always understood that every worthwhile endeavor carried risk.

That was the difference between fools and strategists: fools stumbled into danger and called it fate, while strategists measured the slope, counted the odds, and stepped forward anyway because the potential reward justified the danger. He had built his entire life on that principle. He mitigated. He adapted. He arranged the pieces until failure shrank into something so small it almost seemed imaginary.

Almost.

There was always a sliver left.

Last week was that sliver.

Not the reckless sort of risk he had taken when he first asked you to perform. That had been instinct, opportunism, the kind of decision he could dress up after the fact as good business sense. No, this had been different. Deliberate. Personal, which made it far more dangerous.

An original set.

Something yours.

He was trying to take back control, to remind himself that you were still a contract, still a commodity he had a claim over, still someone he could bargain with. So he had lowballed you. Hard. Enough to keep the upper hand, enough to see whether you would accept whatever he offered simply because it came from him.

You did not.

You pushed back.

And the first sensation that struck him had been pride.

Not because he was pleased to be challenged, not exactly. But because your spine had straightened. Because you had met him halfway instead of folding immediately. Because some part of his own teaching had clearly reached you. His negotiation had taken root in you. You were learning how to bargain, how to value yourself, how to stop taking scraps simply because they were handed over with a smile.

He should have been pleased.

Instead, a cold thread of fear slipped through him.

Because if you knew your worth, truly knew it, then you might also realize exactly how many people came to see you now. How many eyes followed you when you moved. How much of the Lounge’s current success rested on your voice and presence and that infuriatingly effortless grace of yours.

And once you know, you might stop being content with what he gave.

The thought made his stomach tighten.

He recovered quickly enough to counteroffer. His tone had stayed smooth. His expression remained polite. He framed it as business, as always, because business was a language he trusted. Numbers were safer than feelings. Contracts were safer than longing.

You accepted.

Relief hit him so sharply it was almost painful.

Relief, and satisfaction, and the smug certainty that the whole exchange still served his interests. This would make an excellent venture. It would secure your name with Mostro Lounge, bind you to the restaurant chain, ensure that your growing reputation would remain tangled with his own. If he played it correctly, your success would be inseparable from him.

Secure your name with the business.

Secure your name with Azul Ashengrotto.

That had been the logic.

That had been the plan.

So why did the memory sit in him like poison now?

Why did he feel dirty each time he recalled the look on your face when you agreed, as if some part of him had won something he should not have been allowed to touch?

—

“Another year or maybe less

What's this I hear? Well, you can't confess

She feels neglected and he's suspected

Of makin' whoopee

She sits alone most every night

He doesn't phone her, he doesn't write

He says he's busy,

but she says, "is he?"

He's makin' whoopee”

—

And seeing you now, bathed in aquarium light and song, Azul finally understands the shape of the rot inside him.

It does not matter that this is his Lounge.

His territory. His stage. His carefully constructed kingdom of velvet seats and polished glass and contracts sharp enough to sign in blood.

It does not matter that your paycheck bears his signature. That he schedules your performances. That students associate your Saturdays with Mostro Lounge before they associate them with you.

None of it matters.

Because every person in the room is looking at you like they’ve discovered something precious.

And you are letting them.

The realization curdles inside him.

You are not his.

Not really.

Not in the way he wants with a hunger so ugly he can barely stand to look directly at it. The shame whittles away at his edges.

Azul’s fingers tighten around the glass in his hand until the cloth twists painfully between them.

For one awful moment, he feels like that whimpering child again.

Hidden inside a clay pot while prettier children laughed around him and reached for things he had spent every waking second trying to earn. Admiration. Attention. Want. Back then, he learned quickly that nothing would ever be freely given to him. If he wanted something, he would need to outsmart everyone else for it.

Now he stands behind a bar instead of crouching in the ocean floor’s moss beds, dressed in tailored clothes instead of hiding his body beneath clay walls.

But the feeling is exactly the same.

Because all these people are seeing you.

Wanting you.

And Azul can do nothing except stand there and watch. He did this. There is no one else to blame.

You sing, and smile, and tilt your head toward the crowd with that earnest eagerness that makes his chest ache with something dangerously close to bitterness. You always want to please people. Always want to do well. You offer yourself so freely in these tiny harmless pieces that most would never understand how precious they are.

Azul understands.

He sees the careful way your expression softens when you lose yourself in the music. The way your shoulders loosen. The fleeting moments where you stop performing and simply become.

Beautiful.

Unattainable.

He wants to trap the sight of you somewhere no one else can touch.

Bottle it up.

Lock it away.

A private performance in an empty Lounge after hours, perhaps. No audience. No wandering eyes. No Leona Kingscholar slouched in the back corner looking at you too long. Just your voice carrying through dim lights while Azul listened alone, secure in the knowledge that every smile and lyric belonged solely to him for those few minutes.

The thought is monstrous.

But when did he ever claim to be anything else.

It is easier when money changes hands. Easier when he can pretend your presence here is transactional. Contractual. Something purchased fairly and neatly through wages and signatures and agreed-upon terms.

Because if he strips that barrier away?

Then what remains is simply Azul Ashengrotto wanting something badly enough to become weak for it.

—

“He doesn't make much money

Only five thousand per

Some judge who thinks he's funny Says, "You'll pay six to her"”

—

Your eyes meet his, like you were searching for him in the sea of onlookers.

Even though most weeks he merely listens with his back against his office door; hidden from sight, allowing himself just enough to sate the desire,

Your demeanor fixates and he wonders if you’ve searched for him before. Or if he’s only falling prey to what he wants to believe.

It’s pathetic how his thoughts cannot focus on the patron sliding an order ticket his way.

That all he hears is you, even after the music stops and the intermission piano fills the silence.