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Mainlining Stephen Gardner
It’s a short shot down the highway to Lavern’s, where the music is smoky and the air is worse. Behind us, reading the stickers on my bumper, Alice leans onto the porch rail and swallows what little pride I’ve left her. The small space between her knuckles really won’t miss the cheap gold, I tell myself, like I tell you what you want to hear: the music is a pulse that waits for us, and we will dance tonight. I guess you believe my heartbeat is certain as the backman’s drumbeat. Well give me this: I don’t lie to myself the same as to others. Look, the bass line is going down, and the floor’s cleared out for us. Let’s take a chance that this is right and I’ll guarantee that everyone will clear back and ring a circle and we can two-step and dip until the singer croaks and their hands are bloody from clapping, like we are tied off and waiting for the hit that will send us spinning to somewhere we can look into the rearview from and Alice is tightening her eyes into the dust and we won’t think she sees anything, anything at all that we have a rock-star’s care about. I do care about you, see, but it’s getting late. |
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