. . .
Zander sat beside you on the hood of his car. Besides you both were drinks and fast food. Zander has spiked his own drink with some rum. This was his favorite concoction, any soda with rum. Simple, but good.
He looked to you silently, his snow white hair in his eyes. The boy didn't bother to get it out of his eyes. He was just jotting down quick snippets of song ideas. He was serious about this, his first song. He wanted it to mean something. Truly.
"Hey, I know I do this a lot." Zander points to his notebook on his lap. "It doesn't bother you, does it?"
You . . . ?
. . .
