âmes pétillantes ~ classic rock imagines

• Mark Knopfler •

Mark Knopfler's name was floating around in the comments somewhere, so here he is - not gonna lie, I'm super proud of this one. It was heavily inspired by 'I Hope That I Don't Fall In Love With You' by Tom Waits, highly recommend giving it a listen!

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Mark had been nursing the same beer for nearly an hour when you walked in, eyes red, hair tousled, hands shaking, exposed skin and unsuitable clothes damp from the light rain, and caught his eye.

He thought you were beautiful. A comic book heroine. The muse of a song wandering straight off the page. With little else of interest around him, he watched you curiously.

You ordered a whisky. He never would've thought you would.

Glass in hand, you took a seat at the far end of the bar, the noise of the pub seeming not to bother you. Despite the second-hand smoke floating through the room like a fog, he couldn't take his eyes off you for more than a minute, as though you were perched beneath a spotlight. The pub was full - football fans cheering and gloating at the TV, darts players landing hits with satisfying thwacks, snooker enthusiasts mumbling in low voices, friends winding down after a long week - but their noise faded into static as he watched you stare into your glass before taking a sip. Gulping it down, you grimaced. He laughed to himself.

The chairs beside you were free. He stared at them thoughtfully. Longingly. Then, the jukebox changed, kicking in with an all-too familiar guitar riff, and he sighed exasperatedly, finally turning away only to glare at the flashing machine.

Mark knew he should've been celebrating. After years of grafting with a pen and a guitar, his band had finally 'made it.' 'Sultans of Swing.' Their first hit record. The only way is up.

But everything had come crashing down. With the dawn of October 1978, and the European release of The Dire Straits' first top ten song, came the end of the relationship Mark had relied so heavily upon since his school days. And, as she'd swept out of the door without a second glance, she hadn't seemed to even care. So, there he was, in a dingy backstreet pub, wondering why you looked the way he felt.

He didn't mean to stare. Really. But there was something captivating that kept on drawing his attention back. He was still trying to figure it out when you turned suddenly to look at him.

He panicked, unsure whether to look away or hold your stare, to tease and coax you. Before he could decide, you smiled coyly, and focused back on your drink, lifting the glass to your lips and downing it. Your face remained as smooth as a mask.

Heat rose up Mark's neck, like a kid at school caught doing something naughty. And yet, he couldn't help noticing how bright your smile was. Mismatched with your crestfallen expression.

Unabashedly now, he watched you pull a pack of cigarettes from your pocket, place one between your lips, light it with one fluid spark of flame. The end burnt brightly, like a star, before settling. The seat beside you remained empty. It would be so easy.

As you exhaled, the smoke lifting dreamily around your head, you looked back over to him. Again, you smiled, giggling now. You thought it was funny. Despite himself, Mark laughed with you, shaking his head. He looked away momentarily. When he looked back, you were talking to the bartender, who began refilling your glass.

Mark's beer was almost empty. He could go and get another one. Sit at the bar. Sit next to you.

For a moment, her face flashed before his mind. He'd loved her, or so he'd thought, for almost ten years.

But, he considered, had his face flashed before hers, as she'd walked out without a care in the world?

He grasped his beer glass and strode confidently to the bar. After jostling through a group of drunkards, he made it to the other side and slammed his glass down. With a nod, it was taken to be filled again.