Short Fiction

I'm at the worst bar. They don't have Papst. What fucking state is this anyway? That's fine, I stole some gin from my roommate and drank it in the car. He wouldn't mind though, so I guess I borrowed it. Some good news this week, but mostly bad. By which I mean devastating. The musician I'm here to see, the sound guy, and myself were all in a band 1,000 years ago, and we were definitely going to make it. Or so I believed when I was 17 and playing venues 1,000 times better than this. Still, despite the lies I've been told and the truths I've learned, despite all the instincts I've learned to honor and those I've learned to ignore, despite the fact that there's only four other people in the audience, the only thing that I can be sure of is that I wish it was me up there instead of him.