Andrew’s tuning Jay’s guitar.
Jay’s getting the back of his neck licked by Mae forluck.
Mikey’s double-fisting shots,
throwing back his thirdjust-one-more.
“Yo, should I spit out my gum?” Nico mutters,
but no one answers.
“I just put it in, but I regret it…
“Gum’s got, like, only two chews on it…”
Jay folds over, smacks Nico’s foot.
“Off my fuckin’ cords.”
“Lost my damn pick again.” Mikey groans,
slaps his jean pockets, frantic.
Andrew stands and snatches the fourth shot out of Mikey’s hand, swapping it for a pick. “You’re cut off,” he says, claps his shoulder, then downs the shot himself.
“Should’ve planned better.
“Should’ve scheduled the chew,” Nico sighs.
Energy’s crawling now—fast, hot, stupid.
Then it fades as they start disappearing,
one by one.
First Jay.
Then Nico.
Then Mikey.
Then Andrew walks up to me,
his grip tight around his guitar case,
knuckles pale.
My breath’s held in my lungs.
His heat pumps into my skin as he stands over me, breath jagged enough for the both of us.
His eyes are half-lidded as they drag across my face—searching, burning—like he's two seconds from kissing me, or setting the whole night on fire.
He opens his mouth,
but only a breath rushes out of him.
His eyes break away.
