She stood behind the bar, popping out from a background of cut-out comic strips and bottle cap collages. Her makeup was packed pressed, matted. Her eyes racooned and shot out from the thick black liner that encircled her freckled green eyes. She wore a Lexington Football shirt that she must have cut, leaving a fraying, plunging neckline. A long necklace dangled into her cleavage.

She mixed a rum and coke slowly but skillfully, watching intently as the glassy alcohol dissolved into the color of the dark soda. When our eyes met, her glance jumped away. She couldn’t look at me or she wouldn’t look at me and I couldn’t bring myself to blame her. Her shame shamed me and I had to wonder if that was her intention… It would have been mine.

I was sick. The type of sick that comes with hot heads, cold hands and hazy minds. The room didn’t seem that succinct or specific. The world was tired, I was tired, so I slowly sank into the background and forced myself to focus on the tiny details: The shaggy orange carpet sleeping under my heels, earrings dangling from a cork board, the sound of Bright Eyes seeping from my speakers. Life could be simple if only I could have taken comfort in the way paint cracks and the smell of just-sharpened pencils.