Fugue # 5

She nightlights as a rockstar. Striped shirt, silver skirt (white leather/going down), tights, boots.

Between songs, "We love you, Ana!" Mumble mumble (beneath bangs) yo? 2-3-4, buzz fuzz crash thud. Two chords, maybe three (accidentally), and a prehistoric beat. She seethes, while they surge, and hang on every clipped word - waiting all tension and release during the verses, exploding at the chorus.

She bares her teeth to smile more than snarl; she winks at least a much as she scowls. A vulnerability equal parts passive, aggressive, attractive, and seductive. Roy Trakin, something something, no-wave. She sings about the things we are deprived of. Love, happiness, humanity, feeling.

Outside, afterwards, packing up. Snow falling in big cartoon flakes, orange pink in the alley streetlight. She carries a guitar case to the van, and from the back of her denim jacket, an acrylic-painted black-and-white mouse grins, (lopsided, blunted, eyes-half-closed), and says "The Groovy Mice."