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Stacey jumped when the door opened again. How many people are here? Where are they coming from? It was a man with a deep scar on his face and wearing a suit. He looked condescending. Great. Stacey didn't want to anything to do with this man. He didn't like his vibe at all. The man walked by him, seemed to ignore him, the flat out told him that's not his name. Like what the fuck? Where does he get off saying something like that? There's a possibility it's not the name his birth mother gave him, but it's the only one he knows and will go by. Not much makes him mad, but his name is a touchy subject. Not his fault it's feminine sounding. He doesn't feel like beating this dead horse again, so he keeps his mouth shut. No point in saying anything. It changes nothing. The man went to the jukebox, then turned back to him and apologized while pointing out his anxiety. Even better. A bullshit apology and a calling attention to his flaws. Stacey hates very few people, but this guy was making it on his list. He's never hated anyone this fast. Not even himself, and that was years in the making.

Finally a song played and it took a few seconds through the piano intro to recognize it. The Killers. One of his favorite bands and his favorite album. He swayed to the piano, tapped his fingers through the drums, then strummed his fingers like he was playing his guitar. He learned to play this song a while ago. He hasn't played it in a few years, but the notes came back to him. He closed his eyes mouthed along to the song. He felt like playing now. Maybe after the song was over. He tried to tuned out what the man had to say and focus on the music, but he was hard to ignore. Stacey stopped and opened his eyes, but tapped his foot. Looks like he won't be able to enjoy himself while they chat. He'll come back to the jukebox later and jam out if he can.