hey people looking out the window at the city below

We linked arms under the beginning progression of chords that we both knew well and bodies pressed into us, against the barriers, towards the gods on the wooden stage. Hollow sounds contrasted with the furious strumming, drums banging against the rhythm of the room. And suddenly the room caught up. Empty pint glasses rested on abandoned tables, heads bobbed, and the musicians strummed, sang, beat. I closed my eyes.

The music dimmed and so did the lights, leaving behind a musty scent of sweat, bodies, and people began to scatter. We went outside then, resting our heads and our backs against the wet patch of grass across the street from the tavern. Raising cigarettes to our faces and blowing streams of smoke into the air cold wet. The bruise on his chin smarted and he reached over. His hand, my knee, fingers crossed. I looked at him then, and tasted lager on his breath. I caught mine, and he kissed me. He stood up first, shirt damp and clinging from the grass, and I found his hand again. He walked with a hand in his black jeans pocket and told me that pretentiousness could be good.

Cars swung by and the lights blurred as I reached out the window of his car, leaned and smiled into the air. He turned up the sound and the rest was inaudible; the world was noisy in that moment.