Notes breaking upon exiting the throat. They were detached, confused in trying to form themselves into a melody. It would've been sad if they could organize. The lyrics told of heartbreak and whisky, two of the singers' most acquainted friends.
He entered the room, cigarette dangling deadly from his mouth. He walked up to her, annoyance and a command to stop on his face. She complied silently, but forced contact between their eyes.
Her lashes swept over each other, for a brief blink. He caught view of every strand of ebony hair. He had to, gazing to intimately into those bullet eyes, tinted brown 'round the pupil. And they were large with sadness that the lashes didn't disguise.
"You never did sing well, know who," Spike murmured.
"Yeah.."
She trailed off, words fleeting.
He looked up, shot.
"I was just-"
"-I know. Don't worry about it."
She stood. She looked as if she was about to leave him alone. When she stopped, gazed up at him, and smirked. He had not hinted that he had noticed her frontal state, which he had. It was revealed. The perky fabric stretched across her bust was unbuttoned. Her upper curves spilled out.
"What are you trying?"
"You like blues, right? I was never good with my voice, but my mouth, on an instrument. That's different."
The words themselves out. He shivered. It wasn't drafty.
"Did you play the harmonica, the sax?" he inquired casually.
"The harmonica."
"Ah."
A silent agreement flickered between them. And then she was on her knees. Her following unholy actions, a prayer to rid the blues.