Bookworm: "It was one of those nights, the kind you don't want to forget."
Sunshine: "Will you?"
Bookworm: "Maybe, eventually. I wish you could've come."
Sunshine: "Me, too."
Almost-empty parking lot outside an almost-adandoned building. Step out of the car, cold air hits us, remember: it's getting colder, clearer from here.
Broken, old lift elevator. Spiral staircase wide and forgiving. Reminiscent of one time in Europe.
Dim lights, antiques, canvases, peeling ceiling, warped floorboards. Authentic paint stains on the floor, the wall.
Smells of pine, musty furniture, fire smoke, cigarette smoke, oil paint.
Big bottles of red wine, brown bottles of beer, two wine glasses that have traveled all over and have not broken yet.
He wears a purple flannel shirt and girls watch him intently. He wears it before, after, and while it is trendy. One of the reasons to admire him, to love him.
Would he be able to move his fingers up and down, keep time with his foot, sing up to the ceiling, if he was carrying all the love I've got? We do not live for each other, like they do in stories, and that makes me happy. There is so much love, so much life, to share.
Lights on, new faces, calloused fingers, empty stage. Feel different, renewed, a little drunk, a little dizzy. Pepto Bismol-pink door. We compartmentalize things. Music. Art. Love. Words. A shade of pink in an otherwise dark oil-painted room.
Try to use the elevator, even though it is broken. Run, for fun, down the spiral staircase. Help carry keyboard stands and guitars out into the cold air, only getting colder. But I like it. I wouldn't be here if I didn't.