no spark no boom {ky + trunks}

[rook]

but sincerely
can't you feel what i'm feeling?
i can see my life so clearly
i burn up, burn out
i shouldn't do this to myself

You are a remarkable young girl in an unremarkable dive bar. You lean forwards, both forearms resting on the sticky wooden counter - the uncrossable border between yourself and a myriad of moonshine. Your eyes glaze over the selection of bronze and emerald bottles angled in pigeon-holes on the walls, each adorned with it's own personalised label and flavour. You feign interest, entertaining some notion in the back of your silly little brain that you're for one moment taken in by the different hoppy tastes and fruity notes - you aren't, you really aren't. For the first few sips you will note something unique about your choice of liquid refreshment, and after that it all tastes the same.

You've been to a few places around this area - this is the part of town where your bars don't have table service and you can't put the bill on mommy's credit card. Hell, you can even pay for a round of drinks with blood if you know where to look. Think One's full of preppy Careers and rich kids? You're not the only one around here who's testimony to that. This bar though, you like this bar. There's something about it's unglamorous décor and bad lighting that suits your vibe, and honey you're all about the vibe. A pastor's daughter drinking in a den of sin - it works.

"What'll it be?" The barwoman throws a dish towel over her shoulder.

Happy hour and there's not a smile to be seen.

In the corner a burly man sits, his hulking form shielding a small tumbler of bourbon - his eyes have seen things that you cannot yet conceptualize, and his sausage fingers dance hauntingly over the rim of the glass, as if he is yet to decide whether he wants some fresh trauma to be swallowed up by the sweet oblivion of his beverage.

Against the north wall a thin, desperate gentleman presses the plastic receiver of a payphone handset against his sunburned ear whilst his free hand swirls a half-empty bottle of fivian pale ale in small circles at his hip. He is apologising down the line to whatever unfortunate soul is on the other end. It is the same old lies that he told the last woman to mother his bastard, and she will leave him like others did.

Sat on a stool immediately to your left is a large red-haired woman, adorned in a plaid shirt with torn sleeves that reveal a black tapestry of love and loss imprinted into her freckled skin. She is strong, muscles beneath the fat - maybe once a Career in her youth, before time wore down her resolve and discipline. She works away at a crossword between sips of beer, like she does every Tuesday - maybe it is her way of keeping routine and order in her life.

And then there's you. Purple pastel hair that cuts off below your ears, a boyish face, and an old denim jacket cannibalised with bad stitching, off-colour patches, and various unionist badges. You are a working girl with a mouth untainted by silver spoons and rich boy lips - you were born in the gutter, and you'll die in the gutter, and that's how you like it. People come to you because you're reliable, because you're the chick who gets shit done, the girl who carries a 24 inch Katana into a dive bar and have no one question it.

"Just a beer for now." Your voice is quiet yet stern. The promise of further rounds carries an authority that prompts the landlady to open you a tab, and then she gets you that drink.

but sincerely
can't you feel what i'm feeling?
i can see my life so clearly
and i know it doesn't last
but i don't mind at all anymore

lyrics: musician by porter robinson