50

The atmosphere is electric as the sun goes down and the multitudes of Christmas lights hung on every possible concrete surface slowly flicker awake. Edward is on a coffee run for us – the us being Liam the Welsh guitarist, Laurent the Haitian steel drummer, Edward, and myself.

"So 'ow long 'ave you et Monsieur Edward been together?" Laurent asks in his unfamiliarly melodic accent – to me it sounds like a cross between French and Jamaican. He's flipping his hair from shoulder to shoulder, giving him the impression of a rainbow aura - about fifteen minutes ago he clicked a remote he had hidden in his pocket and his multicolored dreads lit up, miniature lights woven into the stiff hair.

I blush and thank God that it's gotten dark out so he can't see. "Um, since about three this afternoon," I answer truthfully.

My blush grows from his and Liam's stare and I'm surprised my cheeks aren't lit up like Rudolph's nose. After a beat, Liam barks out a laugh.