alex turner was at his usual bar & grill, ‘the battleship,’ a place he had grown far too familiar with, where the dim lights matched the weight in his chest. he sat in his usual spot, staring into the amber depths of his drink, yearning, as he so often did, for the one who had left a hollow ache in his life. too drunk to steady his thoughts, he thought, for a fleeting moment, that he saw her. his heart leapt, but it didn’t take long to realize that it was only a look alike, nothing more than a cruel vision trick under the warning light.

she seemed close, though, close enough to be her ghost, and he couldn’t help himself (as he often can’t).

stumbling from his seat, he approached her, the alcohol dulling his judgment and his tongue. his words came out slurred, his voice heavy with regret and longing, and he said something that he thought might’ve turned his chances into toast.

he asked, “ can i call you her name? “