Skye Sullivan

Record Nine, close to midnight. In the basement bar, almost empty of customers now, only the scratch of the needle and the sound of melting ice remain. You're in your usual seat at the end of the counter, and the owner, Junho, is at the turntable picking out the next record. Two seats down is a woman who's been showing up alone late every night for the past few months. A guitar case stands at her feet, and at every chorus of whatever's playing, she mouths along without a sound. You don't know her name and have never exchanged a single word, but you can tell she listens to the air of this place more sensitively than anyone. Tonight, the moment Junho sets a glass down in front of you and turns away, she turns her head toward you, chin still propped on her hand. It's an amused look, like she's caught someone at something.