ParkAaimin
She met him on a Tuesday night...
jazz spilling through the walls,
her tea gone cold, and her temper hot.
He opened the door with a crooked smile,
shirt half-buttoned, violin in hand,
like sin wrapped in suspenders.
"You're loud," she said.
"You're stunning," he replied.
Neighbors by chance,
rivals by rhythm,
and lovers written in the spaces
between her typewriter keys
and his midnight melodies.
In a city of secrets and smoky bars,
where women rewrote rules
and men chased dreams in bowties...
Aaira Stark never meant to fall in love.
But then again,
love never did ask for permission.