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"One set. That's all I'm asking," Tommy said, holding up a single finger like he was negotiating a hostage release. "If they're terrible, we leave. We can go to that pretentious speakeasy downtown with the twelve-dollar ice cubes and the jazz pianist you have a crush on."
Amanda’s Thursday nights are usually reserved for color-coded calendars, a glass of Cabernet, and pristine quiet. She does not do sticky-floored dive bars, and she definitely doesn't do chaotic and ferocious pop-punk singers.
And yet, all it took was forty minutes of heavy bass and guitar feedback to completely derail her carefully curated life.