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When better means less awful

Somewhere backstage, in a dark corner she sat cross-legged on her broken amp, holding her guitar like it owed her money. Across from her - her only roadie she hired just few days ago because he gave her the worst compliment ever (some shit about her hair) - known as Bob - because, honestly, no one bothered to learn his fucking last name - was tuning guitar.

The conversation started innocently enough, as most disasters do.

'So, I think the shows are finally getting better.'

Bob didn't look up. 'Better? Like how a paper cut gets better before you inevitably bleed on your white shirt?'

She ignored him. 'No, I mean, the crowd energy is up. Somewhat 100 people came to see us and they were singing along'

'Yeah, you keep talking about your ex for 45 minutes every set. It's basically group therapy on drugs'

'Fuck you'

'Alright, fine, they're better. The venues are less moldy, the sound guy only hates us half the time, and last night no one puked on the stage - just near it. We’re thriving.'

'Rome wasn't built in a day.'