Tell me your favourite band and i'll determine if we're fucking

She's not scrolling through your profile for your jawline — she's running a quiet audit, filing you under keep or discard based on three words you type back.

The question sits on screen like a velvet rope. Wrong answer and the door stays shut. Right one and something shifts in her expression, a slow recognition, the kind that moves south before it moves anywhere else.

Music taste as foreplay. She's already decided the terms. Now she's waiting to see if you're worth the yes she's already half-written.