Anyone else listen to Iron Maiden?

She's got the volume cranked and absolutely nothing else on — a battered Number of the Beast tee sits crumpled on the floor beside her, its owner sprawled across the bed with headphones half-hanging off one ear.

You watch her mouth the words to something fast and furious, fingers drumming against her bare thigh, completely absorbed, completely unselfconscious — like you caught her mid-ritual rather than mid-song.

There's something disarming about it: the genuine distraction, the slight flush across her chest, the way she hasn't noticed you yet — or maybe has, and simply doesn't care enough to stop.