Cold Gold

You

could

see

everything.

The smell of locally brewed, bitter wheat beer, with a twist of stale cigarettes leaked up your nose. You could feel the aroma gripping onto to your clothes, the same aroma that would later soak your sheets for a Sunday morning reminder.

Dim musty yellow lighting blurred with the grey tones of smoke filled the room, as the sound of her raspy, deep voice, layered with guitar sounds pierced your ears. Each string stroked echoed off the four walls, birthing snake like vibrations that slithered across the floor, biting your heels and crawling up the backs of your sticky legs.

Conversations circled around tables, spiraling into the air and fuming towards the ceiling, as pounds of glasses hit the bar. Cold gold was going to be your only saviour tonight and you needed to get in line.

Sliding between the moist bodies you placed yourself against the sticky wood. The left over beer attached it’s self to the lower half of your right arm, as you leaned in to catch a glance of who was in charge. Hand up, confirmation nod down, and the look around.

You gripped the gold and gulped a bit down. The wet, fuzzy bubbles were racing down your throat, quenching your over heated body, as the beads of sweat saturated your shirt. You were going to need more.