9 O’Clock and Still a Clown

a dramatic analysis of “Fashionably Late” by Falling In Reverse, as told by someone who’s had enough of men and their bullshit

It’s nine o’clock.
Not early. Not late.
Right on time.

The sky is that hazy in-between shade, the kind you only get in early September. Faint pink mixed with dusty lavender, clinging to the edge of sunset like it’s too scared to let go. The air is sticky, heavy with leftover heat from a sun that’s already forgotten you. The sidewalk hums under cheap flats. Streetlights flicker like they’re winking out warnings.

Maria walks up slow. Not hesitant, just exhausted. She’s coming straight from work, again. The kind of job where the floor is always sticky and the tips come in crumpled singles. Her dress is wrinkled at the hip, her makeup’s faded just enough to show how long her day has been. But she still shows up. Lip gloss on. Shoulders back. Hope, barely, still intact.

She pushes through the bar doors. One of those too-trendy, too-cold spots that tries way too hard to pretend it’s not just a glorified Applebee’s. Blue lighting. Loud music. Tables that wobble.

And there he is.
Kyle.

Already laughing. Already leaning way too close to Rebecca. Already sipping a drink that isn’t his and acting like he owns the place.

Maria stops walking.
She doesn’t say anything.
She doesn’t need to.

Rebecca sees her first. Freezes. Moves her hand like it wasn’t just resting on his arm. And Kyle? Kyle turns like this is some kind of surprise party. Smiles like he didn’t spend the last week swearing he was done being messy. Like he wasn’t the one who asked Maria to come here in the first place.

“Babe,” he says.

Just that. Nothing else.

Maria doesn’t respond. But the silence says everything. And Kyle, because he can never let silence hold power, fills it.

“We were just talking. You’re being dramatic again.”

Classic.

The worst part is she’s heard it all before. This entire scene has played out like reruns on a channel she keeps forgetting to cancel. Kyle, the eternal frat boy with a guitar and zero self-awareness. The king of “I didn’t mean it” and “You’re overreacting.”

He gives her the speech. The whole script.
“I’m not that guy.”
“I hate that I hurt you.”
“I didn’t plan it. It just happened.”

And somewhere in there, like the encore to a show no one paid for, he drops the line.
“Sorry about making out with your friends.”

Like that’s supposed to make it better. Like the apology somehow cancels out the betrayal.

And Maria just stands there, watching him spin guilt into confetti. She looks past his cologne and his smug little shrug. She sees it all for what it really is.

He was the guy who showed up when she was at her worst. When she had just moved out. When she felt unlovable. When she didn’t know where to land. And he came in with that smile and that voice and that little golden retriever puppy named Moose, and he made it seem like healing was something soft and easy.

Moose is probably home right now, curled up on the couch, waiting for someone who doesn’t deserve him. The only warm thing about Kyle is that damn dog. Ears too big, eyes too innocent. He was the reason she stayed the first time Kyle pulled this stunt. And the second. Maybe even the third.

Because Kyle with Moose looked like a future. A soft one. A real one.

But this?
This is just another scene from a play she’s already tired of performing in.
Another night where her trust is a joke, and her pain is background noise.

He tells her again he didn’t mean to. That it was just a mistake. That he doesn’t want to make her cry. But the truth is he does. Not because he enjoys it, but because it keeps her close. Because he’s the kind of guy who only feels wanted when someone is begging him to change.

Maria deserves someone who doesn’t need to be begged.

It’s nine o’clock.
Her drink is sweating in her hand. The bar is too loud. Her heart is quiet for once. And for the first time, she’s not waiting for him to fix it.

She’s just watching the curtain fall.

_________

By Gemma Ortwerth