Fiction or non-fiction? You decide
I remember the way the light of the candle lit room danced across his face. His gold tooth glinting in the low light. I remember the way he sucked back the smoke from his cigarette, while what he couldn't catch danced in the air. This aging Rockstar I once met.
"These days will be good for us." He said in his raspy over-sung voice. "This is the back end of a memory, little missy. Remember it"
His hands resting on the tip of his guitar - his inhuman woman. He carresses it as he speaks. He strokes it as he looks at me. Pushing his tounge along his lips, running slimy across his teeth. The years behind his eyes. The drugs under his skin. The liquor trickled down his brow. This aging Rockstar I once met.
"Your life should be lived with the precision of a taylor", his hand moving slowly along the neck of his woman, hitting strings as they go, "These days should be good for you."
I sat there, in the smokey room, astounded with the sight infront of me. Gracefully picking up the words as they dribble from his mouth. But I could not string together my own response. While he stared at me from inbetween the curls of smoke and the shades of silver across his face, I stood up and moved my hips closer to him. I looked him over, and threw him a devil's smile. I bent over to his left ear, smelling the years of deviant behaviour on him. To this aging rockstar I once met, I gingerly wispered:
"Peace"