Haze - By Andrea Wolfe Page 0,22

like quieter places much better. The city certainly has its appeal, though, especially from a business perspective."

I watched him all night with great fascination, amazed at the things he knew about. He was so charming, so endlessly clever and bold. It was obvious why he had been able to succeed in the music business. Even if he had been telling me about quantum physics, it would have been the best lecture I'd ever listened to.

"Jack, how old are you?" I asked. The question seemed appropriate given everything else leading up to it.

"Guess," he said.

"Twenty-eight."

"Exactly right." His smile was deceiving.

"You're a liar."

"I'm thirty, all right?" He lowered his head, solemnly staring into the surface of the table. "When we're done here, we can go plan my funeral. I know a couple of good funeral homes in the area." He broke into a laugh that swelled over the roar of conversation in the restaurant.

I giggled in response, his silliness utterly contagious. "Talking about your own death is a great way to win over a girl on the first date." It was incredible to realize how much he had experienced in such a few short years after his success started rolling. He was only six years older than I was, and already he had done more than I would have done in ten lifetimes.

One thing was for sure—he had grown weary of huge companies within the music and film industries. He talked more about his career than his private life, but I wasn't ready to ask him anything too personal, despite the fact that he'd already dug into my past. He was fighting for artists who just didn't have a voice against huge corporate entities.

His passionate fight was kind of sexy, no doubt. It made me want to go out and protest something too, just anything, really. Monsanto, the government, other big corporations...

Anyhow, the conversation was perfect. I wanted to enjoy, not overanalyze. We ate, continuing to drink throughout the whole meal. By the time the table was cleared, the live music for the night had begun. It was a female singer-songwriter, one brandishing an acoustic guitar and a humble attitude. She began singing, and I just had to turn my head.

"She's great," I said. "Her voice is beautiful!" Hell, she was beautiful too. A cute little brunette, one wearing a pair of torn up jeans and a hoodie. I felt as if I were hearing something already produced for the radio, a product so pristine and nice that it would sell millions—if people could only find it. "Have you heard her before?"

"I might have," Jack said quietly. "There are lots of people like her in NYC, one for every coffee shop on every night. Maybe two or three for every coffee shop." It was a little more snide than I had expected from him.

"What do you think of her? I think she's great." Despite Jack's disinterest, I couldn't believe that I was hearing original music of this caliber so randomly. These people with acoustic guitars were a dime a dozen, just like he had said. I had been to so many gigs—everyone had a friend who started a band that wasn't any good; you just had to go so you didn't hurt their feelings—with the most boring, bland music ever, and this was the total opposite. It wasn't just the alcohol either.

Maybe that's why people were lined up outside...

"I'm not going to make a judgment prematurely, especially when we're talking about careers that need to last a lifetime. Just because someone can write one good song doesn't mean they can actually make it. This industry is brutal."

I didn't really like how stiff and boring he was being about her. He was supposed to be the expert, and yet, here I was, gushing over this person whom I was convinced would soon become a superstar while he acted like she was no big deal. Why wouldn't he take my opinion seriously? I felt very strongly about it, something unusual for me in regards to music.

The girl played through a full set, gorgeous song after gorgeous song, the lyrics as captivating as her incredible voice. I was convinced that I was witnessing perhaps the next Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morissette, or Adele. These songs were so well put together that I could already hear full arrangements in my head, lush productions with drums and guitars and keyboards—and it was actually kind of weird.

Jack continued to sit there, so stone-faced and bored-looking. I was suddenly having