Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
*ೃ:.✧ ─── ( 𝙚𝙥𝙞𝙨𝙤𝙙𝙚 𝙩𝙬𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙮 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧 ) ❛ ONE FOR MY BABY ❜ ⌣*ೃ:.✧✼°․⋆⌣ ▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃
𝗮𝘂𝗴𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝟮𝟱, 𝟭𝟵𝟲𝟰
EVELYN ENTERED the los angeles recording studio where she was supposed to interview the band. the topic of conversation was their new album they were currently working on, and brian thought it'd be more authentic to construct the interview surrounded by instruments.
but evelyn rolled her eyes when the room appeared empty. she wasn't surprised by the boys' lack of professionalism. she then let out a sigh, wondering what to do to pass the time. she had strict instructions that no outsider was allowed to touch anything, which included herself.
she looked around at the shiny instruments around the room. several guitars, some brass horns, different types of percussion, but it was the grand piano sitting in the middle that caught her attention. it was like an exact replica of the one her father had.
he was the pianist for sunday service that evelyn was practically dragged to as a child. but whenever her dad played, it put her under a trance of serenity. it was one of the only creative things he did — and one of the only things they ever bonded over.
the memory was so strong that it somehow emitted a bright light of amber around the piano, luring her in. once she sat down on the stool, she pressed down on several keys, trying to remember the different scales and where they were placed. after a couple of minutes of toying with the notes, she attempted a song that her father had taught her so many years ago.
"it's quarter to three / there's no one in the place, except you and me." she sang lightly. "we're drinkin' my friend / to the end / of a brief episode / make it one for my baby / and one for the road."
her parents were big fans of frank sinatra, and naturally, so was evelyn. his voice was something to be compared to liquid gold. his mannerism and presence was absolutely captivating. there was something oddly comforting about his music.
maybe it was the romanticism that made her feel ethereal. like her mind was dancing in some lustful fantasy — but besides that, it was one of the few loving memories she shared with her father when he didn't shut her out from complete embarrassment.
"you'd never know it / but, buddy, i'm a kind of poet / and i got a lot of things i'd like to say," her fingers danced across the keys so effortlessly. "and when i'm gloomy / won't you listen to me? / 'till it's talked away."
