That Girl
Well goddamn she's a pretty little rocker
Hot nights and a bed that's harder than stone
Once the stars go to sleep
And you know that she rolls like the thunder
She's off key but at least her song is her own
This lullabye's hers to keep.
She's glorious
She doesn't have a name
In blue or brown
Somehow her eyes are all the same
She's everywhere
The music's loud, smoke fills the air
And the beer flows
That's when she knows
She's come home.
When she stands she's the queen of her kingdom
When she walks the whole world moves under her feet
Every seat is her throne
She spends smiles when she can't spend her money
She buys love and the danger makes her complete
Without regrets she wakes alone.
She's glorious
She doesn't have a name
In blue or brown
Somehow her eyes are all the same
She's everywhere
The music's loud, smoke fills the air
And the beer flows
That's when she knows
She's come home.
You can keep
All your white knights, pretty lights
Paint her picture neon and gold
You can hear
How her heart beats as she sleeps
Makes you want to give her the world
For a day
As if it could make the music stay.
Well goddamn she's a pretty little junkie--
Cold sweats and a fog that covers her eyes
Just an hour before dawn
And she knows what the toll is for breaking
She's so high but at least she followed the sun
Once before she comes undone.
Lullabye...
She's glorious
Impossible to tame
She's Icarus
And nobody's to blame
She's everywhere
And in the end when all those feathers melt away
You know what she'd want to say--
That although she fell alone
She flew on wings that were her own
And she's finally found her home.
---
It was his 25th birthday, in a crowded pub in Dublin with the music crashing around them and he and Pickles making gestures towards being a couple of rather naughty puppies in a dark booth in the corner. At some point their hands clasped and knocked their rings together, and in just that moment, as he'd been laughing and casting eyes about in case of strangers who might see them, he saw her.
She was a skinny little shrimp of a girl no older than 17, her dark brown hair streaked with eight shades of pink and purple, dressed in a sleeveless tanktop and a miniskirt with fishnets and combat boots and more jewelry than the Queen of fucking Sheba. She was up at the front of the crowd practically ON the stage, twirling and rocking and making eyes at every man who looked at her.
Most people would have glanced at her and written her into the back of their subconscious as just another band whore. Straight men would have slithered over to take a taste -- it was clear she was after some action, and even clearer from the circles around her eyes and the desperately wild expression on her face that she was living a life much fuller than life itself intended.
Miniver himself had stared at her for only a few seconds before his boyfriend distracted him with much more intriguing activities, but he found his mind straying back to her later, and in the days that followed. He couldn't understand why that glimpse had made such an impression on him.
After they returned from their tour of Europe, in the weeks, months, and years to follow as they made their way through Pickles' world and as Miniver blossomed into a professional musician on his own, he'd see this girl again and again. She seemed to be in every club, at every concert, on every corner where fans cheered as the band busses went by. There was one of her wherever they went, so long as the volume was turned up and the alcohol was being poured freely and there was sex and people getting high in every corner. After a while, he came to realize why That Girl always struck him.
She always reminded him, in some little way, of April.
One night when he was 27 and his career just about to launch into true and lasting fame, he saw her in a huge club on Broadway being wheeled out on a gurney surrounded by flustered-looking EMT's trying to clear a path through the crowd. He saw her with her technicolored hair damp and plastered to her face with puke and sweat, her emaciated body under a tiny shirt barely more conservatively cut than a sports bra showing ribs rising and falling in hyperventilating gasps as she twitched and convulsed but as she turned her face towards them, through the clear plastic oxygen mask, he could see that she was smiling.
Hot nights and a bed that's harder than stone
Once the stars go to sleep
And you know that she rolls like the thunder
She's off key but at least her song is her own
This lullabye's hers to keep.
She's glorious
She doesn't have a name
In blue or brown
Somehow her eyes are all the same
She's everywhere
The music's loud, smoke fills the air
And the beer flows
That's when she knows
She's come home.
When she stands she's the queen of her kingdom
When she walks the whole world moves under her feet
Every seat is her throne
She spends smiles when she can't spend her money
She buys love and the danger makes her complete
Without regrets she wakes alone.
She's glorious
She doesn't have a name
In blue or brown
Somehow her eyes are all the same
She's everywhere
The music's loud, smoke fills the air
And the beer flows
That's when she knows
She's come home.
You can keep
All your white knights, pretty lights
Paint her picture neon and gold
You can hear
How her heart beats as she sleeps
Makes you want to give her the world
For a day
As if it could make the music stay.
Well goddamn she's a pretty little junkie--
Cold sweats and a fog that covers her eyes
Just an hour before dawn
And she knows what the toll is for breaking
She's so high but at least she followed the sun
Once before she comes undone.
Lullabye...
She's glorious
Impossible to tame
She's Icarus
And nobody's to blame
She's everywhere
And in the end when all those feathers melt away
You know what she'd want to say--
That although she fell alone
She flew on wings that were her own
And she's finally found her home.
---
It was his 25th birthday, in a crowded pub in Dublin with the music crashing around them and he and Pickles making gestures towards being a couple of rather naughty puppies in a dark booth in the corner. At some point their hands clasped and knocked their rings together, and in just that moment, as he'd been laughing and casting eyes about in case of strangers who might see them, he saw her.
She was a skinny little shrimp of a girl no older than 17, her dark brown hair streaked with eight shades of pink and purple, dressed in a sleeveless tanktop and a miniskirt with fishnets and combat boots and more jewelry than the Queen of fucking Sheba. She was up at the front of the crowd practically ON the stage, twirling and rocking and making eyes at every man who looked at her.
Most people would have glanced at her and written her into the back of their subconscious as just another band whore. Straight men would have slithered over to take a taste -- it was clear she was after some action, and even clearer from the circles around her eyes and the desperately wild expression on her face that she was living a life much fuller than life itself intended.
Miniver himself had stared at her for only a few seconds before his boyfriend distracted him with much more intriguing activities, but he found his mind straying back to her later, and in the days that followed. He couldn't understand why that glimpse had made such an impression on him.
After they returned from their tour of Europe, in the weeks, months, and years to follow as they made their way through Pickles' world and as Miniver blossomed into a professional musician on his own, he'd see this girl again and again. She seemed to be in every club, at every concert, on every corner where fans cheered as the band busses went by. There was one of her wherever they went, so long as the volume was turned up and the alcohol was being poured freely and there was sex and people getting high in every corner. After a while, he came to realize why That Girl always struck him.
She always reminded him, in some little way, of April.
One night when he was 27 and his career just about to launch into true and lasting fame, he saw her in a huge club on Broadway being wheeled out on a gurney surrounded by flustered-looking EMT's trying to clear a path through the crowd. He saw her with her technicolored hair damp and plastered to her face with puke and sweat, her emaciated body under a tiny shirt barely more conservatively cut than a sports bra showing ribs rising and falling in hyperventilating gasps as she twitched and convulsed but as she turned her face towards them, through the clear plastic oxygen mask, he could see that she was smiling.