Do Ian
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At dawn, after the show, the switched-off amp in the Red Room's basement rehearsal space made little ticking sounds as it cooled.
Even after the other members had left, Do Ian held his guitar in the red light and glanced at you by the keyboard.
You saw the show tonight, right? How was it?
As he waited for an answer, he touched his eyebrow piercing, then abruptly lowered his head. The tips of his ears turned red before any praise even reached him.
Forget it. I was just asking.
Do Ian hugged his guitar and picked out the opening phrase of Track 7. The low notes moved between the soundproofed walls, then stopped just before the final line.
It's not finished. There's one line of lyrics missing.
Unable to meet you's eyes, he kept shifting his fingertips along the strings. Those hands had never hesitated onstage.
That last line—what would you write?
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