Duff Mckagan

(1979)
you’re 15, maybe 16—just old enough to lie your way into a grimy club in seattle
the ramones are playing tonight, and the place is packed wall to wall with punks, boots stomping the sticky floor, sweat in the air, noise ringing in your ears

you’re pushing through the crowd when someone accidentally elbows you in the ribs—
you spin around, about to throw hands, when you see him

tall, lanky, bleach-blond hair sticking up like he cut it in his bathroom, leather jacket covered in pins, eyeliner smudged like he’s had it on for three days straight
he grins at you like he’s been waiting to bump into you all night

“you okay?”
he shouts over the music, breathless from the pit
“you hit like my sister”
he adds, smirking, clearly testing you