Phonies

Anne sighed and pushed in the door of a Lower East Side venue. Name on list. Hand stamp. She made her way down some stairs (sticky with stale beer) into a cavernous underworld of music and mingling. She had little hope of seeing Aaron before the show and instead focused on obtaining a Blue Moon. Orange slice chucked. Fruity finger licked.

"Hey, Babe..."

His eyes scanned the crowd; she ordered him a PBR.

"Both these on the tab, man."

His shirt sleeves flapped, unbuttoned, and his hair was matted on one side.

"Alright, I gotta go," he grimaced.

Anne crooked his neck with her arm and kissed him squarely on the lips. It wasn't enough.

The room was filled with the usual creeps, the Holden Caulfield phonies. Scraggly, makeup-less girls with tats of the New World splayed across their backs. Insufferable, jaundiced boys wearing cords from the girl GAP.

Anne was wearing black sequins and a tight-lipped-scowl. She overheard some Bandaid Cow making fun of her dress. She cackled in response.

Aaron ducked into the strap of his guitar, and Anne tried to look at him in the old way. Tried to take pleasure in the near-caress of his mouth on the microphone. The soft denim color of his pants and the perfect line of his thigh to his ankle. The way his sweat darkened the hair above his ears and his bangs and dripped off the tip of his nose.

But his songs were memories, killing her softly, and she couldn't listen to the words without crying. She looked away from his eyes and mumbled his lyrics at her knees.

"Let's 'dance' into her!"

New World and Bandaid Cow jostled Anne's elbow, sloshing beer into her lap. Anne lunged for a bar napkin while the culprits, snickering behind their stubby fingernails, vanished back into the crowd.

You want him?? FINE, take him!!! I don't want him anymore!

She looked palely at her own reflection in the purple light of the bathroom. She knew the songs had been played out.