"Hey, you're pretty good." You glance over at the tall, good looking boy with curly brown hair and a lopsided grin who just stepped off the open mic stage.
"Thanks," he grinned. "I try." You fight the urge to smack him.
"Ashton Irwin," you read off the flyer you're holding.
"Present," he mocks. You give up and punch him lightly on the arm.
"Ow," you complain, shaking your wrist out. "That hurt!" He laughs; it's not an unpleasant sound but it's not a conventional laugh either.
"Hey, violence is never the answer. You should know that." Smiling, you take his arm in one hand and fish a Sharpie out of the pocket of your jeans. "What are you doing?"
He tries to pull his hand out of your grasp, but you hold on tight. Uncapping the marker with your teeth, you scribble something into his bicep. He glances down to see that it's your phone number. You've never been one to make the first move, but this feels different, somehow. "Call me," you wink before stepping back to be engulfed in the crowd.
"I never even got your name," you hear him call over the crooning voice of the current performer.
