In front of him sat the ugliest dog I'd ever seen—a medium-sized mutt with one ear that flopped and one that stood up, a patchy coat that couldn't decide on a color, and the expression of a creature who had witnessed too much.
The guy lifted the broken microphone to his lips.
"And I need you now tonight," he sang, voice cracking on the word need. "And I need you more than ever—"
He stopped, gesturing at the dog.
"Okay, Biscuit, this is your part. We've rehearsed this."
The dog stared at him.
"Biscuit. Buddy. The heart wants what it wants."
The dog yawned.
"That's not even close to the right note."
I should have announced myself, cleared my throat, or said hello.
Instead, I raised my camera.
The viewfinder framed him perfectly—the orange Crocs bright against the gray slush, the broken mic held like a sacred object, and his face a blend of determination and delight. The composition was absurd, and the light was terrible.
I took the shot anyway.
The shutter sound was quiet, but he heard it. His head snapped up.
For a second, we stared at each other.
He had brown eyes. I noticed that immediately. Brown eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a mouth that looked like it was still smiling after hearing a joke. His nose was red from the cold.
Objectively, he was beautiful.
"It's not what it looks like," he said.
I lowered the camera.
"I think it's exactly what it looks like."
He blinked. Then his face split into a grin—wide and unguarded.
"Okay, fair." He stood, brushing snow off his knees. Shorter than I'd expected—five-ten, maybe. "I'm teaching Hog's dog to harmonize. It's going poorly."
"I can see that."
"He has the range. He lacks the emotional commitment." The man tucked the broken microphone into his back pocket. "You're not from here."
"Chicago," I said. "I'm—"
"The documentary guy." His grin widened. "Rhett said you might show up. Adrian, right? I'm Pickle."
He stuck out his hand. I took it. His grip was cold from the snow but firm.
"Pickle," I repeated.
"It's a whole thing. I'll tell you later if you buy me a drink." He moved toward the door, pulling me along in his wake as Biscuit trotted at his ankle. "We won tonight. Overtime. Hog got the game-winner, so he's buying shots for everyone, which means he's going to be insufferable about it for a week."
He grabbed my sleeve like we'd known each other for years and tugged me toward the back entrance.
