Frankie froze. He’d expected Springsteen. He’d expected sappy. But this? This was something else—a confession wrapped in a dance beat. The song wasn’t asking. It was declaring.
“You let me pick the next song.”
“Hot out there,” he’d say. She’d smile, not unkindly. “It’s August, Frankie.”
Frankie froze. He’d expected Springsteen. He’d expected sappy. But this? This was something else—a confession wrapped in a dance beat. The song wasn’t asking. It was declaring.
“You let me pick the next song.”
“Hot out there,” he’d say. She’d smile, not unkindly. “It’s August, Frankie.” power of love madonna