I tilt what's left of the cigarette towards Frankie, offering it to him. He looks at me through his lashes, kind of like he's glaring at me before shaking his head.

"You know I don't smoke."

"I was just trying to be polite," I place the back of my foot on the brick wall behind me, balancing it there. 

"Since when do you even smoke?" he moves his black hood so it's covering more of his face.

"Since I wanted to," I say without looking at him. "Is that a problem for you?"

Drew, the band's bassist, uncrosses his arms as he stands across from us in the narrow alleyway. He takes the cigarette from me, his hands wrapped in striped fingerless gloves.

"Out of the house, no. It's not a problem," Frankie shrugs.

"My break finishes soon," Drew mumbles, inhaling. "How about you join us, Omar? We've got instruments in the back."

"No thanks," I say before Frankie can chime in.

"Why not?"

"Yeah, why not?" Frankie nudges my arm.

"You know that I don't play anymore, right?" I stick my hands into my coat pockets, fumbling around with a piece of paper in one of them.

"Come on, for old time's sake?" Drew tries.

"I wouldn't know how."

"Bullshit," Frankie interjects. "I hear you playing in your room."

Drew cocks an eyebrow. "Great. You can take Adam's spot for the comeback kid, it's the second song in the set."

   "Drew, I don't think that's-"

"See you inside."

He throws the bud on the floor and steps on it, rubbing it into the gravel with his boot before striding back inside the bar. The door swings open and red light pours into the alley. Frankie gives me a shrug and blank look before walking past me. I take in the last couple of breaths of cold air and make it inside just before the door closes behind me.

I learnt how to play the guitar when I was seven years old. It was either that or piano and the teachers made that choice for us so I never had to. It took me years down the lane to realize only the top tier students ever made it to piano sessions. The kids at my table only ever learnt the guitar and even then, most of them stopped showing up to lessons. I don't know why I'm thinking about this now.

I pull out a chair as the band sets up. The place is relatively uncrowded but almost all the bar stools are occupied. I turn back around and watch the guys on stage from my empty table. The table is wet and sticky where I rest my hand which makes me grimace. I shake my hand but of course it's not going to drip off. Instead, I end up air drying my palm so now that it's just sticky.

When the first song ends, Drew signals me to come up. Adam hands me the guitar that was strapped on his shoulder and gives me a pat on the back, "Good seeing you, brother."

"You, too," I mumble as he leaves, not sure he heard me.

I readjust the strap on my shoulder and place the pick between my sticky fingertips. I make an effort not to get it anywhere else but I smudge some on the main body, too. It was unavoidable, I guess. My place on stage is somewhere in front of Mike and his drums and beside Drew. I don't look up from the guitar or the others. I've never liked looking at the audience.

I oscillate my thumb and index finger on top of the string, practicing my chords a bit. I don't have much time though as I'm signaled again that they're ready to play the next song. My head moves just like my hand, feeling the rhythm. It's almost natural at this point. I've played the guitar longer than I've played anything else in my life. Mike joins in with the first verse. His voice is rich and slightly baritone. If you weren't aware of the midnight, you'd think this was an original song and not a cover.

When I look up, Drew looks my way and smiles free spiritedly. I can't help but smile back and for a while, it feels like nobody's watching us, like we're back in Mike's garage. Like I'm eighteen. For a while it's like I never quit the band and Adam never took my place. I'm grooving the fuck out and Drew does a semi dance which can only be acceptable in this bar and stage. The song is pretty easy to perform and five minutes later, I'm handing Adam his guitar back.

When I walk down the steps, I push my hands into the pockets of my jeans and look up at the girl whose just walked into the bar. I keep staring because her eyes are wide as fuck, scanning the room, briefly meeting my gaze before striding towards the bathrooms. Behind her, the door swings open again and a couple of guys walk in. They're fox eyed, looking around like they came here for something. They walk in opposite directions, one of them walking to the bathrooms while the others approach an empty table.

   I'm about to turn away when I hear someone yelling. I look around to check if anyone else heard it too but nobody seems fazed at all. I slowly wak through the narrow corridor, layers of posters covering the walls. I can still hear screams which, away from the music, feels like another reality. When I reach the corner, it gets quiet.

The girl I'd seen moments before, is on the other side of the partially ajar bathroom door. One hand is in her disheveled hair and the other is wrapped around a small object. I must be stupid because it takes me a long time to understand that it is a pocket knife. I have just walked into something more complex than I thought.

The guy, slightly taller than me, has his mouth hanging open. He has the kind of face a dick has, the corner of his mouth slightly pulled into a smirk. For some reason, I think I know what he's about to say.

"You lost?" I ask him.

He bites his lip, eyes flickering back to the girl and I can now confirm he definitely is a dick. Normal guys don't bite their lips like that. Normal guys don't stand outside the women's bathroom.

"The men's bathroom is that way," he points his thumb over his shoulder.

"Then why are you here?"

He cocks his head to the side in muse. "Why don't you mind your own business?"

Before I can whip out a witty response, the bathroom door pulls back and the girl lurches at him. It happens quickly and for a second, I forget she has a knife. When she moves away, the guy staggers back and leans against the wall, holding his stomach. His once white hands are now stained red. Blood drips on to the rug, quickly spreading into the blue threads.

"What the fuck?" the words leave my mouth just as the guy whimpers, his hand pressing over the wound.

She looks away from me, tears running down her chin and she swings at him again. I'm too shocked to react instantly but when she plunges the knife into him, I know that this is really happening.

"Stop!" I yell, reaching for her arm.

She pulls out the bloody knife and waves it at me, erratically.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I think I've asked this question before.

She looks like she's somewhere else entirely, her eyes devoid of emotion. The air of bewilderment she had minutes ago is replaced completely with someone more sure of themself.

"This piece of pig shit had it coming. Fucking stalker," she finally speaks and I am in disbelief, maybe because I didn't expect those words out of her mouth or that a girl like that could stab someone.

"I told you to leave me alone."

She spits the words out like a snake that's cornered. I wonder if anyone in the bar has heard us yet and if they have, what's taking them so long.

She heads into the girls bathroom and I'm left alone with a dying man. His chest rises and falls but his eyes are still closed. Instead of calling the police, I follow her into the bathroom. Her feet are on top of a trash can as she pushes the window open.

"Where are you going?" I ask her. "The police will find you."

"Are you going to call them?" she looks over her shoulder. "Like I could give a shit."

My hand touches the pocket of my jeans, feeling my phone inside. For some reason, I still haven't pulled it out yet.

"You can't get away with this," I don't realize how stupid I sound as she squirms through the small window. I am compelled to grab her legs and pull her back inside so the cops can arrest her but I stay fixated, by the sinks and the mirrors where a foreign reflection of myself stares right at me.

She's out now and looks back at me, through the open glass. I can't read her expressions but eventually, she gets up and I watch her sneakers splash through puddles. I rush out of the bathroom, stepping over the guys legs and out of the bar. It's drizzling a little now. I spot her jacket flapping as she runs across the street and I chase her.

She doesn't know I'm following her. At least I don't think she does. A guy approaches her and she slows down, talking for a few seconds before sprinting towards the car park. I take out my phone and dial 911, entering the dimly lit building.

"Stop!" I yell at them.