•January 28th•
"It's getting late. You should go home," she told me.
"I'm fine. You go ahead, I'll call you tomorrow morning, Georgia."
She stood from her seat and scurried out as quickly as she'd come. She had one last fleeting glance of me before she shut the door behind her. I sat alone in the Grapes, watching people come and sit at the bar across from me, like cheap-looking, pinup-esque women clinging on the arms of their clients who paid them to be their escorts, even men who looked to be tired fathers desperately trying to catch a break by getting pissed up.
I placed my hand on the side of my face, and used the other one to swipe strands of hair behind my ear. My feet ached from some scrappy heels I had to wear to my brother, Fletcher's housewarming party, and my skirt had stains and small tears in it for whatever reason. I felt cruddy, and just a bit tipsy. I'd only had one drink, but due to my cursed Chinese genes I had a major intolerance to alcohol that caused the slightest bit of liquor to make me intoxicated within minutes.
I nearly drifted off to sleep with my chin in my palm, but there was an unsettling ruckus in a barstool a couple of seats away from me, to which I snapped out of my daze to see a young man with a fairly battered guitar case a couple of seats away from me.
He was tall and slender, and held his thin frame as if he was quite insecure and unsure of himself. Half of his face was covered with chestnut-coloured, long, tousled curls, but his large, twinkling brown eyes were still clearly visible. His nose was slightly big, but certainly not in an unattractive way. His lips were mindlessly parted as he searched for someone to wait on him. On the counter, he tapped his fingers, which I noticed were rather long, a sure guitar player's fingers, and he seemed rather impatient. He had a certain je ne sais quoi about him that I very much envied yet adored.
He noticed me eyeing him, then quickly shifted his vision to the floor and halted his finger-tapping.
"In a rush?"
He pushed his hair aside to acknowledge my existence with a sneer.
"Unfortunately. What about you? You look like you're about tuckered out."
His voice was thick and slow, but somewhat sweet. Like molasses. He had a Northern accent, which told me he'd definitely grown up in or around this area.
"Not really. Probably should be, but instead I've decided to take my time. Where are you on your way to, a gig?" I nodded towards his guitar.
"A gig, yeah. At 10."
"What's the name of your band?" I asked, smiling.
"Arctic Monkeys. We're quite small at the moment. It's me and three of me best mates-known each other for years. We took a year off of school to see if we could make a livin' out of this. Though, I've just finished writing the last song for our debut album, and I've got a good feeling about it."
"Ah, so you're the lyricist?" I raised my eyebrows, actually rather impressed.
He chuckled at my remark.
"I am. Also the singer, but let's just say I probably wasn't the best choice," he laughed at his own joke.
"Oh, that's ridiculous. I'm sure you're wonderful!" I snickered along with him.
"That's very kind of you to say. I guess it doesn't really matter as long as you like what you're doing. What do you do, what are you passionate about?"
I stared at him blankly for a few moments.
"I've always been infatuated with photography and music, and just a bit of writing. Although, I've never been good enough with any of those things to make a career out of them."
"Well, you've got time to master them. Perhaps you could be the first photographer to have a best-selling trilogy and a number one hit album?"
We laughed together once again.
"You're funny. I'd like to think like that, but it's not likely, sadly. I suppose I'll have to give it some time, right now I'm just starting out on my own," I played with my hands and stared off into space.
"How old are you?" he looked at me, interested.
"I'm 18. Turning 19 on April 19th. How old are you?"
"Newly 19. Born on January 6th."
"Wow, only a couple of weeks ago. Well, happy belated birthday, then."
"Thank you..."
"Kara Sun."
"Thank you, Kara."
"You're very welcome-"
"Alex Turner."
"You're very welcome, Alex."
"Where are you from? Your accent almost sounds Australian," Alex questions me.
"Ah, no, no. I'm not Australian. Actually, I'm from the southern States. I get Australian a lot for some reason."
"How'd you get out here?"
"I moved out here ten months ago, with my best friend, Georgia. We wanted to see what the UK had to offer. My brother just moved here as well, about a week ago," I leant on the bar.
"That must've been exciting. D'ya know you're way around already?"
"I'm actually still strugglin' a bit. My flat's further down over here on Trippet Lane, but I don't go out too much, as I'm still working on finding a job with a good salary," I laughed to myself.
"Maybe I'll give you a tour sometime. High Green's a pretty boring little town, honestly. But it's home," he said with a weak smile.
"Mmhm. It's quiet. I like that about it. I hated the thought of living in the city because it was always hustlin' and bustlin', I would never get any work done."
"I like the quiet as well, but a bit of noise is good sometimes."
I nodded to agree with him. For several moments, we too were quiet, until I noticed a worn Strokes decal on the side of his guitar case.
"You like the Strokes, yeah?"
"I do, yeah. There's just summat about them; I like their recorded-in-a-garage sort of vibe, you know? Apparently they're releasing a new record next year, but the title's not been disclosed yet."
"Their debut was fantastic. I'm not sure it can get any better than Is This It, honestly."
"I agree. Though, I've got faith in them. I can't help but be chuffed 'bout it," he grins.
"Who wouldn't be, it's the Strokes we're talkin' about here!" I patted the bar.
We discussed our ambitions and interests for around another hour, until Alex looked down to his watch, and cursed under his breath.
"Kara, I'm so sorry, I've had such a wonderful time with you but I've got to go."
"It's fine, Alex. I really enjoyed your company as well tonight. Thank you for staying to chat with me."
"Maybe I'll see you again?"
"Of course," I grinned.
"Alright then. Good night, Kara."
He picked up his guitar case and jogged out of the Grapes.
As soon as the door shut behind him, a wave of disbelief hit me. I hadn't even gotten his number, or email, or anything.
He seemed like such a nice boy; I wanted to get to know him better. Maybe I'd run into him again soon?
**********
I was in a fit of the sulks on the way home, still angry that I was so foolish to forget to ask him for something as simple as an email at least.
I arrived at my flat at 10:27 PM, flipping my light switch to see that like usual, everything looks the same way as I'd left it- messy.
I didn't bother trying to clean it at such a late hour, for my work would be useless. I'd just screw it up again as I made breakfast tomorrow morning.
I trudged up the spiral staircase to my room, and immediately removed my heels to massage the balls of my feet. My bed wasn't made up either. I guess I hadn't taken any time to clean up this morning.
Rain began falling outside the window above my bed. I'd always loved the way the droplets would race each other down the stained glass, and how in the morning I'd wake up to an iridescent bedspread as the sunlight shone through into my flat. That window was the piece that sealed the deal on this place.
I stripped off my clothes after drawing a bath, not bothering to tie my hair up, and letting only the ends get wet.
I was still quite bothered by the slim chance that I'd see Alex again. People would have told me I was ridiculous for being so upset, after I'd only talked to him for about an hour and a half. Something about him really brought out a sense of...passion. I don't know how, and I don't know why. Perhaps it was because he was incredibly charming and attractive to me, at least.
Hot baths were my source of relief, my guilty pleasure-most people would turn to other outlets, like whiskey and scotch, or eating a tub of ice cream in under an hour when distressed; however, I used the soothing, steaming water to rinse away my worries, quite literally.
I decided not to tell Georgia about Alex; there would be too many questions I couldn't answer. I was good at keeping my feelings bottled up. Never once did I tell someone how I felt about them, nor did I tell anyone how I felt about a situation. When I was young, I learned to keep my opinion to myself, as I'd just be spited for it, regardless of if it was valid or ridiculous. Because of this, I tended to be more sensitive, and on the rare occasion that I did voice my feelings, I usually became overwhelmed by emotion; anger, sadness, jealousy, annoyance-you name it.
After an hour in the bath, I wrapped myself in a towel, but fell straight into my bed. I didn't feel like changing into pyjamas at the time. The rain really helped me drift off, as I'm usually kept up by my own thoughts. However, the rain was louder, and so I fortunately wasn't able to hear myself think.
**********
One month later, after posting some of my writing and photography on social networks such as Flickr and Tumblr (with Georgia's help; I've never been adroit when it came to modern technology), I received an email from a woman named Elly Ridge, who worked with the Sheffield Star. She told me she loved my style of writing as well as my photographs, and offered me a position as the reporter for the music scene in Sheffield. I was responsible for attending and photographing gigs, writing reviews on newly released records, new and upcoming bands, even occasionally getting to interview the members of the musical groups if they were willing. From then on, I knew I was set.