Track Review: ROSÉ & Bruno Mars’ “APT.” (Or, The Woman Who Smashed the Keyboard)

Neon tubes buzzing. Purple, pink, blue—all smeared wet across the asphalt.

I kick off my heels. The left one flies into the bushes; the right one cracks a beer bottle. Foam explodes, spraying wild, ticking and licking at my toes.

I scale the picnic table. Wood groaning under my weight—dangerous. Bra clasp pops—who cares. Fingers clawing at the air, barbecue sauce and sweat caked under my nails. Neck whipping, hair glued to my lips, spit it out. Hips locking into the rhythm of the Apateu chant: left, left, right, left.

Bruno is roaring in the speakers. Rosé is roaring. I’m roaring too. Scream it out. Scream the numbers into oblivion. Balance sheets, depreciation rates, 1099 forms—heaving from my stomach, puked straight into the night. Pinky hooked around the beer tab, shaking, shaking, shaking. Liquid splattering across my chest: ice, sweet, burn.

Chug. Gin down my throat, into the hollow of my collarbone, into my belly button. Bottle clinking hard against teeth, glass rattling. A hand brushes my lower back—who? Don’t care. Don’t remember. Just spin. Spinning like a psycho top, arms flinging wild. I flash him a grin. Charred corn stuck in my teeth.

Stomp. Bare soles pounding the wooden deck. Bam. Bam. Bam. Like stamping a document, like smashing a calculator, like crushing the Enter key into pieces, stomping the word "AUDITED" straight into the core of the earth. Dress torn to the hip. Stockings sliding down to my ankles. I step on them and shred—like ripping a paystub—one piece, two pieces, three. Tangled around the string lights, wrapped around the grill tongs.

The hangover crawls in with the dawn. Eyelids glued shut. Throat dry as a fistful of sun-baked sand. But right now, no pounding the Enter key. None of that wretched printer's screech. I lie in bed, soft as last night's grass.

All memories cleared. Like a bank account reset to zero. Like a quarterly report wiped clean. 3:00 PM sunlight cuts through the blinds, spying on every corner of the bedroom. Spying on me.

A discarded towel on the floor, my cat curled on top of it. I roll over. Touch the tip of its ear with my finger. It gives me a look. The kind of look reserved for a misfiled tax return.

Right now, no explanations needed. No edits required. Shifting into a more comfortable position, I just keep lying here, soaking in the light.

Hell yeah.  

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