The band playing ends its set, and I turn off my camera. The guitar player comes up to me, his body inches from mine, and smiles.

“Hey, can I see those pictures? We have to pack up our gear, but there’s this party later. You should come,” he suggests, and I bite my lip, nodding.

“Y-yeah! Totally,” I manage to stutter, and he writes down the directions, accompanied by his name (“Thomas”) and number. Then he walks off, and I stand there for a moment before walking outside to talk to some of the bands that played earlier.

After everyone’s begun to get in their cars and leave, I climb into my rusty old El Camino and glance at the directions. I look in my rear view mirror, checking my make-up before driving to the party house.

When I get there, I have to park a block away because so many cars are lined up along the street. I get out, leaning on my car and lighting a clove cigar, inhaling deeply as I look up at the stars. I finish it quickly, then grab my camera and put the strap over my head.

I can tell which house it is by the blasting music and people mingling outside and in the doorway. I walk in and grab a bottle of Mike’s before glancing around, seeing if Thomas is around. I find him in the kitchen, talking to one of the vocalists of the first band that played. I lean against the counter near him, and when he sees me, he grins.

“Hey! Glad you could make it. Can I get you anything?” He asks, and I shake my head, holding up my drink. He nods and then looks at my camera. “Oh fuck yeah, can I see the pics?”

“Yeah, one sec,” I say, turning on the camera.