#michael gordon

“fuck, what’s a three letter word for ‘stitched together?’” mike asked, partly to himself, staring down at the newspaper in front of him on the sticky bar counter.

“is it not ‘sewn’? i feel like that would be the easiest one on there.” you asked, somewhat polite.

he looked up to see you smiling at him, polishing a glass. “nah, ‘cause it won’t work with the other ones i have down… and i know they’re right.”

“‘…and i know they’re right.’” you mocked. it was nearly midnight, the bar you worked at in silver lake was about to close in the next thirty minutes.

it was enough money to not drown in expenses while attending art school in los angeles.

mike would come in often, after shows, or just with a friend, or just by himself. quick, awkward glances your way turned into hellos, and hellos turned into conversations and exchanged numbers. you liked the company, really, even if it was mostly awkward silence at first.

he ignored her mocking him, his phone screen lighting up his face. “okay, i looked it up. it’s darn.” he scribbed down the answer, then folded the newspaper and put it to the side.

mike’s shell would slowly crack as you started to get to know each other. he’d tell exaggerated stories of things that happened on tour, ask you about your family, your art, the places you’ve been to and grew up.

and you let him in with open arms.

eventually, it was time to close, and mike offered to walk you out. coworkers said goodbye and headed out with their bags as you cleaned the last of the tables, made sure doors were locked and things were put away.

“it’s cold, isn’t it?” mike asked, opening the door for you.

“not really.” you giggled, acknowledging that he just wanted to keep making small talk.

“okay. well,” he started again, “i’m playing at the echo friday night. i can obviously get you a ticket, but i was wondering if you’d wanna do something after?”