cherry cola
The stage is dimly lit, curtains drawn and smoke adrift. A single beam of light flickers on, drawing the eye and hushing the crowd. There's a woman in the centre, illuminated. Ethereal at first sight.
Nearl is watching her closely. White guitar and whiter hair. Voice smooth when she sings, lips pressed to the mic, foot hitting the pedals and it's all so captivating.
The crowd surges close. Nearl breaks free to stand by the bar, beer in hand, by now forgotten. She finds she doesn't want to miss a single word. Doesn't want to look away.
The set ends, the music fades, so the thrumming begins.
/
"I really liked your music tonight," Nearl says, warm and confident all at once. "Platinum, right? I saw the posters."
The singer turns away from the bar, away from the mingling bodies. Her gaze is curious, perhaps even humoured. "Thanks," she says, tilting her head.
It seems a part of her is used to this attention. Makes sense, Nearl thinks. She's even lovelier up close.
"I had to say it."
"I appreciate it." Platinum's eyes scan lazily, taking in the mane of blonde, the broad shoulders beneath a denim jacket. The honest smile. She takes a sip of her drink, gaze locked on gold. "Do you play?"
"No, no. Just here to pick up someone."
Platinum raises a brow, amused. "Oh?"
It takes a fraction too long for Nearl to catch the tone. "I mean a friend! I'm waiting for a friend. Not—"
Her laugh is pretty. Platinum brushes fingers through her hair, tucking strands behind her ear. She glances away, smirking. "You're fun to tease."
But before Nearl can respond, Platinum steps away, beckoned by the crowd. She trails her hand against Nearl's arm, easy in their placement, cool in their touch. "Find me next weekend. I'll be here."
Nearl follows that graceful stride, that subtle sway, until it dissipates into the shadows where she can no longer trace. She's forced to leave with little more than a promise, barely made.
Somehow, she thinks it's enough.
/
She buys a ticket to the show. Stands in the same back corner. More radiant than anyone, even in the dark. She's never met anyone quite like her. And she never even got her name.
Platinum looks up at glittering lights, some disco ball spinning languidly, scattering hundreds of lights to dance across the walls. It smells like smoke and rain. It tastes like electricity. That's how the night feels at least.
She strums easily at the strings of her guitar, custom nacre inlay, reverb cranked high, savouring the way it's all her own. Something real beneath her fingertips. Something just as cold, but filled with warmth. Her voice is low and real and distant. Unexpected, like it's coming from someplace else. Maybe it is.
In these shadows, Platinum had always thought she could hide.
The final song fades out, the crowd sways and cheers. A golden mane vanishes from sight.
Platinum slides off the stage before she realises her feet are moving.
