I’m drinking dark beer, the kind that’s full of dark things, like caramel, or the souls of Belgian brewers. The girl behind the bar looks like Kirsten Stewart, but she’s clean, pretty, mohawked, irritable. The bar (which is really a converted house) is noisy. Too much chatter, a girl in high boots singing to herself, a boy trying to make his way to her. The fans fail to stir the air inside. Faces shine in the semi-dark.
I get hugged from behind. The boy hugging me is quietly effeminate, with tattoos swirling down one slim dark arm. I say nothing and he hugs me again and says.
I don’t feel threatened. I’m drunk enough to lift his arm, look at his tattoos. He hugs me again, once and steps away.