The bar is old and its white walls are stained yellow like smokers fingers. There are hardly any patrons this evening and my band plays on the creaky stage. They’d have been better off with a jukebox, or even the radio. No one cares or needs a soundtrack. It is the kind of bar where evenings end. Not by choice but simply because nothing happens here. I stand in front of the microphone and look out towards the bar.
I blink and then I am standing outside the bar in the rain. I smoke a cigarette. The neon washed street gives me a pink glow and glints on my black leather jacket. I look like I’ve fallen out of the eighties. I flick the cigarette into the gutter and it makes a satisfying hiss. I head back towards the bar.
A girl stops me.