There are hundreds of bars in the city. Most people wouldn't even remember the name, let alone location, of an okay bar because there is nothing to write about. No scathing nor raving reviews, no recommendations, no attempts to remember the name. Nothing at all. Michael frequented one such bar because it sat a comfortable distance between his cramped apartment and the warehouse he worked at. After a long day of working in the dead heat of a metal shipping container, it felt nice to descend down the short, chunky stairs into the forever chilled bar.

The scent of sweet filth appealed to him. It was the stench of body odor and cologne, cigarettes and perfume, alcohol and incense, and whatever else needed to be countered. The only thing you couldn't hide, though, would be the stench of the city itself. It's ever present, clinging to everything it touches much like the streaks of black you'd collect on your palms if you dared to touch the rails in the city. Thick smog, short life spans, and an atmosphere of resigned dissatisfaction filled the air.

Among the hopeless present stood her. Beauty and grace with a name Michael never could find out without asking. He wouldn't go so far as to put himself out there like that. Delicate, sickly hands and filthy, flowing hair. Dead eyes like the polluted ocean they all lived by. She was gorgeous like the sparrow nests he found toppled over by kids who found cracking the eggs entertaining. He never cared for it and just stopped by to snap photos with his instant print camera, collecting horrible sights that made him feel something more significant than 'another day'.

Maybe that's why he kept coming, camera held at odd angles as he drank more than he could handle. The drinks were terrible and cheap, either burning a hole through his resolve or going down much like water. Most people were there to either drink or get drunk. He'd been there to see her but the initial draw had always been the sweet temptation of a short break on his way home, before he'd get slammed with all the trash he'd let built up inside every single time. So much alcohol in exchange for just one more photo, a couple more minutes, and the absolute rush that devoured his judgement and still demanded more.

One.

More.

Photo.

"Excuse me, sir?" Someone asked him, making him drop his phone. They both flinched when it hit the ground screen down, neither looking forward to the revelation as Michael picked up the destroyed device. Rainbow lines, bleeding arches, and electronic webs. "Sorry."

He jammed it into his pocket. "It's not your fault. What did you want?"

"You were taking pictures." He mumbled.

Michael looked him up and down. "Was I?" He wasn't dressed like the staff and didn't seem awfully confident. "I'd prove I wasn't but, uh, you made me break my phone."

"No, you were."

People like him really got under his skin. "Nope." What was he trying to do?

"Just don't do it again." He tried to make himself seem bigger by rolling his shoulders back. "I'll call the police next time."

Michael scrunched his nose. "For what? I didn't do anything, you weirdo. Now stop harassing me."

He finally left, looking a little too proud of himself. Michael rolled his eyes and focused on drinking, just soaking in the moment. It'd been hard to avoid staring because now he knew that his collection of pictures that month would be thin. He had a quota, usually. A limit. And now he wouldn't reach it because of the wanna-be hero.

The one currently talking to her.

He touches her shoulder.

She nods and leaves.

"I'm going to kill him." Michael mumbles under his breath.

The walk home wasn't long enough and he threw a plastic plate at the wall so hard it broke into fragments in his living room. It felt like someone pumped him full of ice-cold water and fresh magma. That bastard wanted to ruin things for him to get closer to her. He'd been competition and Michael plans to get his name eventually for that stunt. His phone is broken on top of all that which means he's cut off from everything in a world where technology is everything.

He falls back onto his couch and winces when the wooden frame smacks against the back of his head. His apartment smelled like stale beer, cardboard, and sweat. The sun never reached him, either, thanks to the building next door being built so close and so high. The balcony is a glorified window leading to an alleyway full of laundry left out to dry the best anyone could manage of the course of a day or two, slowly dyed darker by the smog that blankets the city.

"I should've printed out more photos." He falls over onto his side dramatically, hand swiping and reaching for the half-full photo album he'd compiled.

Each page had nine slots and so he picked the best out of that month's batch of one hundred decent photos. Five photos per day, twenty-five per week, one hundred and fifty per shorter month. His collection takes a lot of space but it's not like he has anything else that he wanted to take pictures of anymore. How long has it been since he's even seen a sparrow's nest let along children running around the city?

Derailed and defeated for the day, he gives up and closes his eyes, hoping he'll wake up late for work the next day. Maybe they'll fire him and give him and excuse to sleep even longer. Michael's body feels so heavy lately and the alcohol in it makes his limbs feel much less cooperative with all that weight.

"Can't buy booze without money." He mumbled before getting up and getting his things ready for the next day. "Guess I need a new phone, too."