[There's not that many things Frank's unwilling to do, but he has no intention of singing in public even as the itching in his throat starts to burn and blister. He used to make music once, old callouses on his left hand's fingertips testament to the stringed instrument of peace he used to wield. There used to be music in a place he used to call home. It was one of the only good things he could give to his kids.
Now there's only silence. Silence brooding over an empty glass of what was once pretty decent whiskey, right up until she clips him. He turns towards her, raising one arm as if he's expecting to catch her if she falls.]
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Now there's only silence. Silence brooding over an empty glass of what was once pretty decent whiskey, right up until she clips him. He turns towards her, raising one arm as if he's expecting to catch her if she falls.]
Are you okay ma'am?