"the rumpus room, colors louder than the music, a place where the walls don’t hold back. Ann was there— not just playing, but spilling herself out into the room, a sound that made you lean in, like it knew something you didn’t. me, my wife, we sat in the middle of it, pizza whispers from Jet’s next door, drinks that didn’t pretend to be fancy, and Ann, pulling the night together with her guitar and a voice that didn’t ask for permission. it’s not a venue, not really. it’s a pizza joint in disguise. or maybe it’s both. the bill came in a Jet’s envelope, and that felt right. nothing trying too hard, nothing out of place. Ann played, we drank, and for a while, it was just simple and good. a night that didn’t pretend to be anything but itself. and maybe that’s what made it so damn nice."
