Tata tana tata tana tata tana...
The electro beat continuously looped like the wet dream of a disc jockey. It was sweet like honey and addictive like narcotics.
It flashed familiar colors on the retinas of its listeners—purple and violet.
It looped and looped, its tempo rising higher.
And when every elent of that song—every instrunt—synchronized, one could hear the anthem of The City.
It sent charged pulses through the atmosphere and shook the very fibres of human skin.
It was loud and boisterous, as if it could envelope the entire city in its zeal.
It excited the hairless apes, incentivized them to pound the ground with their feet. Like sirens, the music vibrated through their skulls, sending an impulsive signal to move.
With a drink in hand and a lover in sight, they danced.
They weren’t beautiful, nor were they ugly. Simply put, they were the heartbeat of the city.
Away from the square where the music blared, in a corner of an alleyway, The Photographer stood surrounded.
The air was tense as the group of buff n took a step forward. Their suits were funky, and their shirts slled of deodorant.
Clutching his satchel, Charles took out a slip of paper and handed it to the man in the middle.
He eyed Charles before accepting it. What was written on it, the cara couldn’t capture. Or rather, it chose not to capture.
The man folded the paper and slipped it into his pocket.
He shoved his boys, and as they moved, he dropped a piece of paper folded into an origami swan.
He made it look unintentional, but it was deliberate.
Once he was left alone, Charles picked up the swan, unfolded it, and took a peek at the string of letters enclosed within.
His gaze contained a sense of urgency as he made his way out of the alley.
The further he went, the quicker the beat beca and the clearer the music sounded.
The sound of wind instrunts welcod him into a square buzzing with the joy of a thousand n and won.
Their modern, youthful clothing seed to be in contrast with his own. The claps of their hands, the shake of their hips, and the dance of the alcohol as it spilled all over painted a frenzy that was pleasant to the eyes.
There was order to this chaos, maintained by the instruntalists on the purplish, black stage.
There was the bassist, the guitarist, the vocalist, the drumr, as well as the usual jazz suspects.
Charles waded through the drunk crowd, his sights on the dazzling stage.
As if they could sense his approach, with the exception of percussion, every other instrunt faded. Most of the stage lights went out.
In the vast square, only the drums were lighted. On the large screen at the back, only the drumr’s figure shook with sweat.
Hair jumping up and down, she was moving her sticks at an incredible speed.
With the steady Bass Drum that invited cramps, Snare, Toms, and Cymbals connected in a quick tempo.
The purplish ends of her black hair shone against her own image in the back.
It was a solo like no other.
While Charles made his way through the dazed crowd, no one moved. Mindlessly, they stood around. They were still as if soone had paused ti itself.
Charles pushed them around, swimming through the gathering.
He was so close yet so far away from the stage. He wanted to peek underneath all that hair. He wanted to see what was hidden beneath.
It was her.
Beyond a shadow of a doubt, it was her.
A black tank top, shorts, and high heels; she was dressed differently, but it was her.
Her hair had a roughness to it. Flowing down her neck, it gave her a mane like a lion. Her lip, nose, ears, and tongue were pierced.
’The choker hides my Adam’s apple well.’
Averie had doubts about it while filming, but there didn’t seem to be any problem.
Punk Big Sis or tal Lady, that’s how he saw her.
But to Charles, she was only the actress from the theater. She was his muse, his inspiration.
It was different from how he rembered her—not just outwardly but inwardly too. She felt different.
If she were a portrait of refined dignity previously, she was now a collage of raw emotions.
How could one woman have such opposing sides? Charles couldn’t understand. He was fascinated and utterly chard.
A thousand different emotions filtered in through his senses. They showed him ideas he never thought were possible.
In his frenzy, he assembled his cara and climbed onto the rusted fra of what used to be an automobile.
With a bent knee and tilted head, he positioned his cara in front of him. Like a hunter, his breath was asured and calm.
To his disappointnt, the stage lights flashed in a theatrical show.
Anxiety overca his shallow emotional range and fleeted across his facial expression.
"No, no," he whispered. "No."
But his pleas went unanswered. As the lights ca back on, the rest of the instrunts returned.
The crowd was dancing again.
But the drumr was nowhere to be found.
"No."
The exciting music was back on, and any reason to be around ceased to be.
He asked around, but nobody knew about the drumr or her whereabouts. The collection of instruntalists wasn’t even a band, as he found out.
It was a futile attempt, but even as the crowd dispersed and the stage was disassembled, Charles’s figure stayed behind.
Pictured from the back, leaning against a wall, he looked exhausted.
The neon ceiling lights colored his outline pink.
The cara panned down.
Unlike its owner, the shadow didn’t portray a sad or disappointed Charles.
The Electro music that had stopped playing long ago faded back in.
The original had his head down, but the shadow’s head was tilted as if it was in thought.
The dent in its head, where the eyes would be, was gazing into an idea.
The shadow was more expressive than before, more... independent.
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