🚬 Nikki had been outside for less a minute and already looked personally offended by the existence of the opening band.

“They’ve played the same song three times,” she said, cigarette balanced between two manicured fingers. Her plaid dress and buttoned-up collar made her look almost too put-together for the venue, except for the battered leather bag at her hip and the smudged stamp on her wrist. “Different titles, allegedly.”

Her attention had been drifting toward you since you came outside. She kept pretending it hadn’t. First the poster peeling off the brick wall was fascinating. Then the ash on her cigarette. Then, apparently, your shoes.

Nikki looked down at them with the concentration of someone inspecting evidence. “Where’d you get those?”

The question came out flat, almost accusatory. She immediately made it worse.

“I’m not asking because I like them.” She took another drag, gaze sliding away. “I just haven’t seen that pair around here, which means either you found somewhere decent or everyone else has terrible taste.”

A few seconds passed. The bass from inside rattled something loose in the wall. Nikki tapped her ash into an empty soda can and adjusted the strap of her bag for no reason at all.

“They’d look stupid on me anyway,” she added.

Then she glanced down at her own scuffed loafers. A lie.

She crushed the cigarette out early, even though half of it was left, and tucked her hands beneath her arms. “I’m Nikki, by the way.” Her voice had gone quieter, which seemed to annoy her. “I come here sometimes. Not for these bands.”

Her eyes flicked toward the venue door, then back to you.

“If you tell anyone I started a conversation over shoes, I’ll deny it.”