Al got approximately zero sleep Saturday night. His brain refused to stop churning the night's events around. He kept seeing those eyes, those hate-filled golden eyes. But he also couldn't help his brain from drifting to the raw sensuality of the singer. The confidant sway of his hips, the way his fingers ghosted along the smooth mic stand, the beads of sweat trickling down his temple as he arched his back, lyrics leaving his lips like a purr. He had never met someone both so alluring yet so frightening.

He didn't have any plausible theories as to what transpired and why. They were strangers. As far as he knew, being a shy person who preferred to keep to himself as much as possible, he never made any enemies.

In the light of a new day, he thought of simply chalking it up to a case of mistaken identity.

It was way past the window of time in which the early risers were sipping their first cup of the morning, the clock reading 3:11, but he needed a few dozen shots of caffeine if he was to function in any capacity today. He whipped on a gray t-shirt, a pair of jeans and charcoal sneakers, swiped his key from the kitchen table and headed out the door. There was a coffee shop a few blocks away.

He kept a sluggish pace down the sidewalk. The sun was shining bright, exacerbating his massive headache. How much did he drink last night? Or was it the total lack of sleep? He shoved his hands in his pockets, dry eyes cast down.

With his weary mind preoccupied, he hadn't noticed the signage on the building ahead. A step off the curb and he would be in front of Red Rock. He stopped, peering at the building's façade until he caught movement in his periphery. Swifly he ducked behind the parallel wall and peeked around the corner. The singer was crouched at the side door in the alley, puffing on a cigarette. He took one long, last drag, flicked it away and headed in the door.

Al couldn't decide if this was luck or a curse. He was torn between wanting to get close to the singer and forgetting he even existed. But a split-second decision had his legs seemingly acting of their own volition, jogging toward the door.

He pulled the worn metal handle and carefully stepped inside, careful not to let the door slam. The door took him to the dark corner of the bar nearest the stage. Peering straight ahead, he saw the singer squatting by a floor amp, wrapping its cord around his arm. He waffled between wanting to stay hidden in the shadows to simply observe, and stepping out into a full-on confrontation. But he didn't get a chance to decide because he had been spotted by the bartender.

"Can I... get you anything?" the scruffy man asked cautiously. He had been busy drying glasses with a rag. Al figured by his confused tone that the bar wasn't even open yet, further confirmed when he looked around and saw no one else around. Al shook his head, contemplating a realistic excuse as to his presence, when the singer turned his head and spotted him.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, lip curled in a sneer, those gold eyes glinting with that same ire.

Al never considered himself very brave. He was a twenty-six year old man with a laundry list of fears. He would never be the one to run toward danger. Except in this instance, when he took a few steps closer to the stage, resigning himself to the certainty that the singer was going to punch his lights out.

He gulped hard. "I... I was just..." A sudden swell of bravery filled his chest, and he raised his voice a little louder. "Did I do something wrong to you? You... seem to hate me and I don't know why."

The singer had no response, not one word of an answer, and no closure for Al. He seemed Hell-bent on simply ignoring his presence now. He picked up the amp and carried it down the stage steps toward the side door. He had to walk by Al to get there, but he didn't look at him at all as he passed.

Al made it a point to look at the singer's face as he went by. It seemed the majority of his rage had dissipated but what remained was a brewing conflict. His lips were downturned to a frown, brow ridge still creased with anger but there was a sadness in his eyes. He saw his jaw flex as if he was gritting his teeth.

Al just stood there for a few minutes, watching the singer back and forth move his equipment to the door, climb the steps back up to the stage, and come back down with more.

He assumed at this point that the singer would choose his option B, the one in which he wiped Al's existance from his memory bank.

"Well, sorry for... whatever I did," Al snipped, peeved in his own right for being involved in this nonsensical fued and being offered no explanation for it.

He turned away and put his hand on the door. Before he walked out, the singer spoke up. But his voice wasn't the same as that cool, confidant man up on stage captivating a crowd. It was softer, defeated.

"What's your name?"

"Alphonse, but people call me Al."

He was out the door before he could see the singer punch a hole in the wall.