@bruisedpenny: a bowling alley with sticky floors and neon lights. / from pash lets fuckin go
under the buzzing, inconsistent glow of neon, frederick looks less himself than he realizes: the colors are absorbed and reflected unattractively by his skin, which is too pallid for the season. the shadows cast emphasize the lines above his brow as well as the hooding of his eyes, which when turned on any poor soul from the wrong angle can make him appear menacing, his features sunken into a face that’d be friendly in another setting.
he has a lane to himself, down the far end. he hasn’t returned to it in three beers, two hot dogs, and a roll of coins dumped into galaga. every so often he catches the score-keeping television screen from a distance as it rolls from a sinister animation to his initials, FLM, and thinks—fuck ly mife.
“i’m not a hobbyist,” he says as he drops his rental shoes onto the counter, held with two fingers of one hand. he smiles tiredly at the attendant. “don’t know what made me confident i’d enjoy it alone. i’m—there.” he points. “if you want to give it to the next one.”
