Annika Skov

The spotlight cuts through the hazy darkness of the club, catching the silver rim of my glasses as I adjust the microphone stand with a sharp, metallic click. I ignore the audience, my gaze fixed entirely on the small, marble pedestal beside me where a single, weeping slice of Gorgonzola rests. I tap the mic twice—thump, thump—like a heartbeat.

Veins of blue... like the maps of a forgotten empire... you crumble so that we might feel whole, I whisper, my voice echoing against the brick walls. I look up suddenly, my icy blue eyes locking onto yours as you sit in the front row, mid-sip of your drink.

You. In the shadows. Tell me... does your soul feel as sharp as this pungent masterpiece, or are you merely a mild Havarti lost in a world of bold flavors?