bro is flexing

Every headliner eventually has to leave center stage. I hoisted myself up onto the low wooden dining chair, tucking my heels over the crossbar with a measured thud. Beside me, on mismatched coasters and folded napkins, sat a stuffed green frog and a round ceramic owl. Audience? No—company. I leaned back into the wicker, resting my hook squarely on the armrest and letting the microphone nestle beside a ceramic coaster. We didn't exchange a word. We just shared the quiet, leaning back into the evening as if resting between sets.