We pass a stage that's a foot off the ground,
tucked intimately in the corner.
We slip along the edge of the crowd,
girls tracking our every step, their curious eyes hitting us from all directions.
Crescent-shaped booths melt into the brick walls on both sides.
The bar stretches across the back.
The lighting's moody and dim, but not dark enough to blot out the girl getting fingered against the steel beam, head thrown back, mouth ajar.
When I glance back,
Andrew’s watching me—eyes slow, lids heavy,
trying to figure out what angle I’m playing tonight.
“Keep going. All the way to the back corner,” he tells me, phone sliding into his pocket as he points left.
Someone calls his name, he doesn’t turn.
A girl reaches out, he sidesteps her.
He moves like a guy who’s completely off-limits.
And I wonder if it's because I'm here,
or if he's like this all the time.
When we hit the back half-circle booth,
it's overflowing with bodies.
No table, just a scuffed wooden ledge where sweating drinks go to die.
One guy’s hanging off one end,
twirling a drumstick between two fingers,
backwards snapback, eyes glued to his phone.
Until we show up,
and half of them lift their heads.
Drumstick guy stands up too fast,
fumbles his phone,
nearly launching it across the floor.
Another chokes on his drink,
coughing and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Bro. BRO—” Drumstick says,
