She was twenty-three, still bonded to youth, and suspicious of those with confidence, “How can anyone like themselves in this age of mirrors?” She’d choose to coyly pose at any bar’s back entrance, to move only for the sweetest of forays, that of a conga train with a man of vein wrapped ankles. She’d ask him home and in the morning he’d clear his throat and begin with that planned speech he said he’d deliver when surely sober. Something about thanks and fun and ‘gotta run’. Her morning spent binning evidence and without friends to induce a whimper.
[Amazon have the Sound of the Smiths on sale for £4.49; so that’s less than 10p per song (45 tracks available, too, as it’s the deluxe edition) – including the song above.]