A few years later, and I've moved on to another job as a banker instead of a paper grader. I somehow find myself back at the same bar that I swore off due to the embarrassing time I had there when I first went, when I heard that mortifying piece of poetry written about me. The memories have worn off enough, and I was out on the town anyway, so I asked myself why not.
The bar holds the same air as it did when I was here last -- not rowdy enough for me to be bumped around, not quiet enough for my every move to be monitored by at least one other person in the club. I had no idea that they would be holding another open mic tonight, but I am pleasantly surprised. I'm not very well disposed towards the music they play at clubs, and I do enjoy poetry. It soothes me in partnership with the alcoholic drink I order at the counter.
Another poet takes the stage as I take my first sip. His words are not material that would ever be published or analyzed in schools for multiple centuries, but instead they're light-hearted and wild. They remind me of someone I used to know, someone I lied to so they would leave me alone and minimize the pain. But it doesn't last forever, and I end up feeling a sort of connection to this poet that I don't want to dishonor by allowing another poet to fill me with his work. Having finished my drink, I get up to leave a couple seconds after my favorite poet has left the stage. I swing my jacket around my body and feel a tap on my shoulder soon afterwards.
Hoping it's not someone trying to pick me up for the night, I spin around.
"I think my poetry got shittier now that it's not about you."
~~~~~
A/N: ooh lil cliffhanger wowowow anyway im done w this shit goodnight
~Dakootie patootie (@lana-obama asked that I use this so whatever)
YOU ARE READING
Fashionably Late
RomanceLate for his job on the first day, teaching assistant Jamie Taylor can sense that the teacher isn't so fond of him and never will be, but maybe Jamie has the wrong idea.
