1 /BRIGHT LIGHTS
GARY CLARK JR.
// ALLISON - SEPT 30, 1:34 AM - LOWER EAST SIDE, NYC //
“I’m so good at being alone, it’s sickening,”
Celie says through a mouthful of ice.
“Like, I’m so good at doin’ me,
“I forgot how to spell‘us.’”
The bar soaks her up.
Oxblood walls. Velvet black shadows.
Bluesy rock that's grabbing you by the hips.
Light pours down from globe pendants,
blurring everyone beautiful.
Celie glows under it?—
tight dress, big hair, loud laugh.
She's in phase one:I Don’t Need No Man.
The part where she swears off love,
but it’s never love she’s over.
‘Cause no matter how many times she says she’s free, her smile and laughter's still dragging chains behind it.
One of the bartenders slides us two Dirty Martinis,
eyes locked on Celie the whole time.
Bronzed skin.
Honey-glazed eyes.
A minor god.
Hands big enough to grab the night
and bend it over.
Celie lifts her glass to toast her freedom,
then gulps half.
“Drake ain’t even all that,” she snorts.
“His eyes are too close together.
“You know who else has eyes that close?
