the last drop is a comforting atmosphere - to anyone who isn't vi, tonight. to vi, frankly, it's stifling. the fresh paint powder's been spraying up is cloying in her nose, the hairspray keeping her spikes up is too hard, the smoke in the air is too thick, the music is too loud, the disco lights are too bright and too fast, and she's way too sober to be doing whatever the fuck she's doing here.

god, she wishes she was drunk. or high. even pumped full of acid like the crazies at the end of the bar, giggling and making noises at each other. but she's not. vander is taking forever to grab her beer (as per usual - he doesn't like her drinking) and all she can do is pretend that the red in her cheeks is alcoholic.

she feels gross. she feels like a creepy stalker. but, she tells herself, it's not like she knew you were gonna be there. she just asked vander about someone of your description for no reason. and when you usually came in. and what you ordered. and ordered it for herself.

and now she's waiting, like an idiot, on a friday night, sitting at her dad's bar on her own when she could be doing anything she wants! playing a show, watching a show, hooking up with every girl in brooklyn that wants her! evidently, though, she isn't. the worst, most humiliating part of it all, is that you aren't even there.

then - god, if this was a movie, she'd have jumped off of her creaky barstool and sang 'hallelujah' - the doorbell jingles and there you are. you're basically glowing- but of course you're not, she thinks, it must be all those drinks she's had.

so, of course, she summons her resolve, and... doesn't do anything. she stares at you like a creeper, telling herself that she's just waiting vander to come back for her drink, and she's 100% got the nerve to approach you without it.