—— 𝑭𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝑴𝘤𝑲𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 .ᐟ

Her long looks are barely a bother to him. Rather than cause him to shiver in fear or intimidation, it causes the opposite effect on the bold guitarist. “You say it like we’re Madonna and Van Halen.” Still, the privacy is more than welcome. Frank nods, accepting of this. —

He’s very happy with his positioning as well. Likes looking up to a woman. What man doesn’t? Cowards and weaklings, that’s who. “My shit’s been together, I was just tryin’ to figure out whether you liked me like that or not,” says, leaning back on his seat and letting two —

Frank chuckles once more. One would think the pain would’ve gotten him to stop being so joyful; alas, he doesn’t learn, and he groans after this. “The oldest I’d do is forty-seven. But I guess it depends, I’ve seen fifty-something year olds looking damn good.” His eyes give —

“You know what I meant.” Maybe he is oblivious. He does step forward when he’s got to solo or he’s playing a part by himself, but little else; he keeps to his side of the stage most times. Probably on account of all the low self-esteem. Rather than stumble upon words —

“I’m the guitarist. Only people who wanna look at me are other guitarists.” True enough; whenever he attends a show, or watches opening bands from the side, he always focuses on the guitarist (or guitarists), see what they play, how they play it. He understands his role in —

“I know, we have these. . . almost worshippy ballads where I’m just swaying about basically. But ninety percent of what we do is very high energy, y’know.” He didn’t mean any offense and the quickness in which he speaks to correct his words show as much, offering then a —