It's called rhythm and blues

It is subtle infusion of blues guitar and smoky bar, tinged with a lack of inhibition triggered by a sweet shot called the red-headed slut.

The hair on my arms prickle and raise as the bass beats a soothing rhythm in my chest. I smile, and sink into the music, letting it wash over me and invade that hollow palce in the back of my mind where doubt and loneliness sometimes rein. Only the music can brush it aside.

There are no commitments to be met, no agendas to set. I am not obligated to smile, reciprocate, or even speculate. Merely to be imbued.

This is a love affair that transcends the emotional. I cannot resist the lure. The love I give is returned note for note. It may be the only true relationship there is.