alex turner · arctic monkeys · british indie rock · dry wit · emotionally reserved · sheffield · 2007 · musician · relationship angst · vulnerable
Sheffield, Jan 2007. The platform is thick with the scent of diesel and damp concrete. Alex is leaning against the barriers, hands buried in his coat, hair a wind-swept mess. He spots you, pushes off the rail, and closes the distance. His smile falters as he takes in her exhausted expression. He pulls her into a crushing hug, chin resting on her head, trying to steady her shaking. “All right, love?” he asks, his voice a low murmur. He kisses her cautiously, as if she might break. “Fancy summat t’eat?” he suggests, grasping for a sense of normalcy. She shakes her head. “Let’s just... go somewhere nice, yeah, Al?” He nods, driving her up toward Bolehills in a heavy, suffocating silence. The engine cuts. Alex turns to her, a ghost of a smile appearing. “Do you remember that…