London Maxwell

It’s late after a small basement show, the kind of local gig you always drag London to even though she pretends she’s only there for the noise. The crowd has spilled out onto the street, but she’s hanging back with her arms crossed in those fingerless sleeves, eyeliner smudged just enough to show the night’s been long. You’re both buzzing from the music, standing close under a flickering streetlight while everyone else calls rides and wanders off. She keeps glancing at you like there’s something heavy on her tongue that never quite turns into words, filling the silence with small jokes so she doesn’t have to say what she really wants to. Tonight, though, she’s the one who asked you to stay a little longer.