FLASH FICTION – FOWC & RDP

He heard her riff from the other side of the park — sharp, ragged, alive — and it hooked him deep.

She wore ripped jeans, grease-smeared at the thighs, and a black tank clinging like second skin. Her wedge sandals cracked against the pavement, loud in the dead night air. Neon from the bodega stuttered green and pink across her face. The street smelled like hot concrete, burnt coffee, and metal.

The park was a ghost — limp swings, bleeding graffiti, trash twisting in the wind. She crossed barefoot, her wedges abandoned like broken shells, toes flexing against the grit.

Guitar slung low, she slammed a chord that split the silence.

He was already moving — hoodie up, sneakers scuffing, sweat trickling down his spine. His mouth tasted like rust and cheap beer. His pulse, steady but hard.

She extended an arm, fingers loose, head bobbing deeper into the groove — lost, or somewhere he couldn’t follow. Each beat hollowed out the night until it was just her.

He crossed the street, the music pulling him in.

Two steps. Three.

She hit a final shred — sharp, blistering, reckless — tearing the night wide open. Then she stopped.

Looked straight at him.

For a second, the whole city held its breath.

She smiled first — small, real.

He smiled back.

No words. No need.

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