the venue was smoky, but not from cigarettes. machines spewed faux smoke to keep up appearances. blue and purple and green lights faded and changed and adjusted with the mood of the music. behind the fog was all eyeliner and collarbones and legs. deep voices laughed louder as the night wore on; the sloppy laughter of red stripe and pbr. of whiskey and coke.
the singer wasn't great, but the songs were, and by this point no one cared either way. she looked older than she was, hollowed cheeks and tired eyes, hidden under layers of L'Oreal.
and everywhere, the fake rhetoric of a generation based in hyperbole and disenchantment.
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