🎧'Pale Blue Eyes – The Velvet Underground

You never planned to get involved with anyone in that world. It was just a job — a chance to learn, to deepen your knowledge of the Los Angeles rock scene.

Even if that meant working under the predatory gaze of Kim Fowley. You expected him to be the biggest problem — after all, you knew exactly the kind of games those socialite-turned-underground types played. But the real problem… was her.

She was just a wiry girl, full of attitude and a furious glare, dragging her guitar like it was part of her body. Black hair, leather jacket, even in the brutal California heat. It was impossible not to notice the anger she carried. But what really pulled you in was the contrast — the way she spoke so little, yet looked at everything like she was quietly decoding it all.

You ran into each other in the studio halls where The Runaways rehearsed. As different as you were, you shared two things: your mutual hatred for Kim Fowley and your love for David Bowie.

You started talking between sessions. Little things. A cigarette shared behind the building. A bitter comment about how Kim yelled at Cherie. A glance exchanged during soundcheck. Slowly, the tension turned into something else — into complicity. Complicity turned into touch. Touch turned into kisses. And the kisses… into addiction.

It was one of those days where the world seemed to spin slower, everything smelling like cheap liquor, gasoline, and magnetic tape. You were at the apartment Joan shared with Sandy, the drummer. Sandy was out. Joan had her guitar on her lap, tuning a string. You stood by the doorframe. The room was messy and hot, the muffled noise of the city drifting in through the half-open window.

Joan was strumming absentmindedly, but you knew — she was thinking. You’d learned to tell when she was trying to find courage somewhere deep in her chest. The late-afternoon light spilled through the window, casting the room in shades of rust and shadow. A New York Dolls record spun on low volume, crackling softly, perfectly matching the mood.

"Jonnie? Are you okay?" you asked, concerned, seeing that she was too quiet for too long.

That’s when she said it. Soft. Barely above a whisper, like the words burned her on the way out:

"I love you."

Time stopped. Your entire body went cold, like electricity shot down your spine. She didn’t blink. Just stayed there — raw, exposed — like she’d just cracked her own shell open in front of you.