Whichever one it was, I've always had the impression it was a woman that stood there, maybe one that looked like me, maybe around the eyes. Her hair would be loose in the breeze, her apron flapping gently, anchored only by some pudgy hand toddler.

Her hand would be at her eyes, and she would be squinting at the horizon, waiting… There had been the sirens, telling her to seek shelter, but maybe, just maybe, she was tired of the tin can rooms stuck underground, with canned meat product and a bare, swinging light bulb to keep you company. She stood on her porch… If they were going to kill her, then they could do it where she could breath free…

There would have been a flash in the distance… I don't know much about physics, or the various ways to bring a world to its knees, so it could have been something like a rolling cloud of doom that spread out over the land, or maybe it was instant… I think it was instant. That way, she would have still been on the porch when she saw the cloud rise up from the land, and saw the skies turn cherry red…

My mother was the one who told me this story. I found out later that it was her own act of fiction, but that didn't matter to me. One true part is that she dreamed of that day the night before she had me, and at the last minute, decided to change my name from 'Samantha' to 'Cherry,' just like the skies.

As a child, this excited me, but now, I'm horrified at her choice. She named me after doomsday. What a horrible thing to put on an innocent, squalling child. 'Welcome to the world, little girl. Your name is death.' I never got to ask her why. It's one of the many things I'm mad about that I'll never get to ask her about.

The office is clean, bright, sterile, unadorned, a mecca of orderliness. Nurses move crisply from screen to screen, padding in their government approved sensible shoes. I study the shoes quite a bit. The taper towards to toe, and have a slight rise for the heel. They are grey, with white soles, so as not to mark the linoleum with their passing. They are not sleek or teasing; they are not made of ice or fire. They are a lukewarm bath, not warm enough for comfort, but enough so you don't freeze. What a curious representation of womanhood.

The nurse catches me staring, and I return to my tablet with a wince. I've been hit before, but I swear, there's nothing like that wince to get me going.

'Name: Cherry Dormi

'Occupation: Artist

'Occupational subdomain: Landscapes, fabricated oil.'

My name is the only thing I have to write in. All the rest are pull down menus. Just scroll through, find where they put you…

A pain hits me, in the shoulder, and I seize up for a moment. This one isn't so bad… Like a long spidery hand has taken a hold of some nerve-ending and yanked as hard as it could. The pain fades in seconds, and I notice not one of the nurses turned when I cried out. They were used to the shouts of the dying. So, as a matter of fact, was I, but I couldn't really ignore it, now could I?

With a half-hearted glare, I return to my work filling out forms. The desk is the only thing with some character, and after some more slots have been filled, filling the outline that is me, I begin to study it. Wood burl, not real of course, but a convincing replica, none-the-less. My fingers trace over one swirl, and I find a swan there, neck arched and head raised, wings wrapped around itself protectively…

A nurse sneaks up on me (damn those shoes) and taps the tablet with an angry frown. "Miss Dormi, you do not want to keep the doctor waiting."

My head snaps up, and I shrink as I try not to look up her nose. "Um, I'm almost finished…See?" I hold up the pad weakly, and she flashes out a hand, tapping a triangle at the bottom of the page. A fresh army of pull down menu appears. "Ah," is all I can manage to say as she struts away. I hear her mutter 'What a NEP,' to one of the other starched woman, and she rolls her eyes.

I finish the forms, and when I rise, I glance down to the swan… I find the swirl, but not the bird. The moment is gone.

I am lead to a waiting room, and the theme of sterility remains even if the colors become slightly warmer. I sit, not bothering to look at the flickering vid-screen bolted up near the ceiling. It's just the news, anyway. Another mobilization from the bottom sectors up... I can see the privileged screaming now, with more of the stub-nailed middle class edging in on their territory. There wasn’t much choice, though. We were simply running out of room... Running, hell, we were out of room, and had been for as long as I could remember. My mother and I had lived in a one room flat barely big enough for one bed as long as I could remember, and when she died, I felt remorse, but also a glimmer of seedy glee, knowing I would never be kicked in the back again in the middle of the night.

It was only a temporary delight, though. When my body started to turn on me, breaking down, bit by bit, I had wished she had been there, wet rag in hand, a list of Old World recipies spinning in her head to make me feel better... None of them would have worked, of course, but none of the clinical treatments worked either. At least hers didn't involve needles, and used alcohol rather liberally.

"Drink the vodka, love... That's a girl... I know it burns... It's burning all the badness out of your system. See how it's warming you? It'll roast all those bad germs..."

I figured out as an adult that it wasn't burning anything away but brain cells. The only reason she figured it worked was a drunken ten year old can't complain. Still, I lived, didn't I? She couldn't have been too dangerous a parent.

The door slides open, and a man in an oversized suit jacket strolls in. He's meaty jowled and squint-eyed, and in spite of the quality of the clothes on him, he still looks sloppy. I guess there are some things class doesn't change.

I rise as he motions for me to follow him, and totter along, my frame making me look like I'm some doddering eighty-year old, with the flesh of a twenty-year old draped on my frame. He leads me into his inner sanctum, a sleekly paneled office, with shelves lined with holographic diagrams and curious oddities that I'm certain would mean something to someone. One thought occurred to me:

There's no way in hell I can afford this guy.

I settle into a steely, cold chair as he takes his place across from me, across the span of a huge, dark-colored desk. "Miss Dormi... Aged twenty five... A member of the Artisian center... Do you know what you're afflicted with?"

If I was more limber, I would have jumped across the table and smacked him. Instead, I shake my head no. "It's not one of those things they have a name for, according to the other docs. Are you telling me you have a name for it?"

He smiles wanely, not showing any teeth. "I do."

"And how much am I going to have to shell out to get it?"

The smile leaks off of his face. "Miss Dormi... My office is not exactly your average medical unit... We study rare syndromes, such as yourself, and cross reference the symptoms with the databases from other, poorer clinics. Your set matched, so we contacted you."

"You're still not answering my question."

"The treatments are unorthodox, Miss Dormi... But so are all cures when they begin. Your bones are deteriorating, your joints, and your heart and lungs are following suit. You've been given shorter and shorter spans of time left in your life--"

"And you're going to fix that, huh?"

"We are your best chance at that, Miss Dormi."

I looked around the swank office, at his clothes, some of the best simulated natural fabric money could by. I looked at the paperweight to his left... A horse. Wrong proportions, but I think that was on purpose. Damn expensive though. If these were the markers of their success rate...

"I don't have a lot of money..."

"You won't need it, Miss Dormi. It's been taken care of. The government gives us more than ample subsidies to support this program."

Something still didn't click... but the logic side of my brain had long since atrophied. "Why me? I'm a NEP, a non-essential personnel. Why waste all the fancy meds on some scummy artist?"

"Because they're not going to waste the last days of an EP while this is still in the experimental stages," he said shortly. Obviously, I wasn't jumping to sign up quickly enough. Death hadn't shaken me all the questions out of me yet.

I didn't ask anything else. I just leaned forward, signed the screen that rose out of his desk, and released any right to control what was happening to my body.

They paid for the glider back to my place. True, it wasn't enough to get one with a decent transmission, or a stable flying unit… or hell, even air conditioning… but it was better than sitting on cramped public transport, elbows in my sides, smells clotting my brain.

He let me off, scowling at the lack of tip, and flew back up to the moneybag sectors. I could almost see then from the narrow walk in front of my flat—lines of light high above, shadowed by wider walks, dotted less frequently with the steel doors of homes. I didn't have to wonder what they were like inside. I'd done more than one fresco or ceiling there, and left less than impressed. There was gold, there was glitz, but they were just as automated and cramped as the rest of us.

I press my hand on the pad by the door, a large, greyish rectangle. There are whirrings and clickings from somewhere, as an old beat-up technology attempts to do what it once did smoothly and sleekly. I don't hold the churnings against it, though. It's been doing that for at least two generations.

The door opens, and I step inside. The air is cool, having lacked body heat for a half day, so I wait to take off my coat. Instead, I sit on a sturdy crate I grabbed from the docks a few year back and look out my window. It's not a view, but as humans, we have a tendancy to look out, fearing looking in. I was scheduled for surgery tomorrow, surgery I may or may not live through. As I watched the people mill by, I began to wonder if there was anything I should be doing right now… Maybe write a will, or the story of my life, or something final. But no… My life is the same as anyone else's, though shorter, and a will would imply that I had something to leave to someone. I have neither.

Tears begin to well, and I decide people watching may not be the best thing for me. I rose, aching, and stumbled over to my bed, against which a handful of canvases lay. I pulled them appart, marvelling at how heavy they had become, and studied them, the results of 'Occupation: Artist, subcatagory: Landscape, oils.' Some were rolling meadows, some seascapes… I even had a few jungles, though they didn't really sell that well. I study the green, and wonder… Is that the green grass should be? Maybe it should be bluer. After all, the sky is blue. They'd be reflecting that… And for that matter, the sky: do I have the sky right?

There are some pictures from the time before, placed in airtight tubes, in dark cells. Even though the protection, though, I hear they're fading. The last bits of what we once were are being washed away… I touch the blue that may be right, but probably isn't, and wish I could see the sky before I die.

They pick me up about 1000… I don't know the exact time. I think my clock is broken again. I look at it sometimes, willing it to change, to go faster, but it drags on and on… sometimes, I wonder if a second always felt like an eternity.

The transport is fairly snazzy, sleek and lined with strange lights and readings, with cases labeled with severe words like 'Heart Resuscitation Unit' or 'Back-up Breathing Apparatus.' I read the cases as they lay me down and begin taking my vitals with little sticks with light bulbs at the end. Pulse, shitty. Blood pressure, shitty. Reflexes, shitty. At least I can still see, but they don’t check that, of course. It's like my body is a temperamental child, pouting and kicking its arms and feet, screaming for more attention, and I, being the awful parent, just don't know what kind of attention to give it.

One of the meds do, though. He gives me a shot of something clear, and I feel my mind fog. Yes, that's what it wants—chemical heaven.

The med car hovers out to the open area that are the city's airy roads, and I feel the gently pushing of the vehicle lifting, rising, up to the upper city. I relax as my body numbs, the whoosh of hovers passing us, and the beeps from the equipment around us my lullaby…

I feel the jolt of the trolly I'm on as its wheels hit the ground. I want to open my eyes, but they're heavy… The clear fluid in my veins whispers to me to relax, to flow. I feel very Zen as I'm wheeled through the hallways, like the world had softened and melted into a river, and I was but one fish swimming along in it. I no longer worry about the bills to pay, or my pending mortality, or the pains that await me when I awake… I am the silvery trout, sleek and chill, stimulus, response…

The trolly stops, and I am lifted again. Someone lifts the lid of my eye, and light floods me, filling me to the brim. Stimulus. I fight the intruding hand, trying to close my eye again. I'm not ready for the light… Response. I wish I was a fish…

"Twenty more CC's of bythenol, then hook her up." A needle hits me again, in the upper arm, but it doesn't hurt… It's like the knowledge of pain without receiving it… The river grows dark and warm around me, and I am gone..

I feel warm, at first, and I resist waking up… I want to stay in the thick, heady nothingness, floating. But there's something not right about it, something that bothers me. I open my eyes, see a dark so absolute, I wonder if I really did open my eyes. I try to move, but can't. The more I struggle, the tighter the bonds on me become, until I am gasping for air, every breath a battle of epic proportions.

I sense someone behind me before I see them, and I know who it is. How do I know who it is, I wonder, and the truth comes to me: this is a dream. Her hand falls on my shoulder, pale and thin, tapered fingers, like an artist's finger's, or a thief's. I twist to see her, mother, dead so long, already smiling. She's come to help me, to free me from this dying body.

The bonds slacken enough so that I can crane my head back and up, and when our eyes meet, I try to scream, but there is no air left in me… Her face, bloodied and raw, misshapen, is not the woman I said hello to every morning for nineteen years, but the creature I said goodbye to the morning I came to claim the body. She reaches out to caress my cheek, and her fingers are wet…

"Rise and shine," says a soft voice to my left, and my eyes flicker open. There is a washcloth, damp, on my cheek, and the firm, delicate hand of a candystiper is holding it there. "Rise and shine," she says again, and I turn my head. I am not shining.

I see the doctor enter behind her, shining enough for the three of us. "Miss Dormi, you're awake!"

Somehow, my drug-addled brain decided he meant to say 'not dead,' but was just too polite to say anything. "How'd it go?" I croaked, and I marveled at my voice cords… God, it felt like I hadn't used them in years! How long had I been out?

The doctor poked at his digipad—god, what was his name? I should remember—And he grinned. "Everything went swimmingly, Miss Dormi, at least, as far as we can tell right now… Your vitals are up, your lungs seemed to have cleared, your heart hasn't had a palpitation in over eight hours. You're the picture of health."

My mind reels. I'm still dreaming; I have to be. This is all some delusion… Or maybe this is hell. He'll rip off his face any second now, and hit some switch that will turn on the eternal damnfires. I waited, bracing myself for the maniacal squeal of glee as he doomed me to purgatory, but he didn't comply. He just waited, waited for me to say something.

"Oh." Well, that was something, wasn't it? He seems a tad crestfallen. Maybe I was supposed to jump up and dance, or start crying, or offer to sleep with him. I don't know… It's not like I've ever had my life saved before. There's not much protocall on this…

"Oh," I said again, and decided I should show some academic interest in the subject. "Um, how did you--"

He cut me off, no longer gloating over my clean bill of health. "That, for now, is a matter for this clinic, Miss Dormi. We wouldn't want any lover level butchers trying to copy us, now would we?" He turned to the candystriper. "Miss Louis, please ready the papers for Miss Dormi. I believe she is ready to be discharged."

Discharged?! What the hell?! I just got out of surgery! I shouldn't be kicked out this soon! I struggled to sit up and found, to my shock, that I didn't have to struggle at all… My muscles complied cheerily, and there wasn't a single groan from my fading bones and joints. They were a little stiff, but I guessed that was from the bed stuffed with, by my estimate, bottlecaps, rather than any illness. The good doctor caught my slackjawed look and chuckled.

"As I said, the picture of health…"

The candystriper brought me a tablet, and I marveled at my signature as I looped it on the square used for signing discharges. It was looped and even, effortless. I couldn't remember the last time my signature looked like that. Since the first shaky pangs, it had begin to shrivel and shake, like a lizard baking in the sun, dying and drying out. Someone had watered me…

I walk out… They want to wheel me out, but I insist on walking. My heart races. I'm taken with the sudden urge to see myself naked, to see the flesh that had begun to drip and sag, and see if it was as revitalized as I felt. I can't do that here, though. In a daze, I bid them goodbye, sign up for a follow-up, and find myself on the narrow platform before their clinic.

I stare out at the upper city, in all its artificially lit glory, and breathe in the filtered air, deeply, with relish. Suddenly, it all seems very beautiful and unreal, and I have a sudden urge to walk forward and step off the platform, jumping into the empty air of the road, and seeing if I can fly.

I don't though. I catch a bus instead, and head back down to my flat.

In the apartment, I'm in a rush to get inside. The door clicks and whirs for a life time, and I dance from one foot to another, gnashing my teeth… My god, even those seem stronger!

The door slides open in a weary hello, and I rush by it, slamming it behind me. I draw the curtains, hands already at my collar. I'm no exhibitionist, after all… Not when it comes to me. I undo the snaps in a flurry of dexterity I never remembered having before, and rip off the blouse. The slacks follow suit, and I turn, looking at the polished metal panel I had used as a mirror in my vainer days.

Time stopped as I looked at myself, and the buzz of excitement held its breath. I… I didn't feel like I was staring at myself. It was me… Dark hair, painfully straight, same round face, with eyes that were the color of spilled soda. The same hips, narrow, the same breasts, average… But there was something else about me, some air of health. I had never been all that robust, but now, there was something about the smooth skin, the lithe arms and legs, the places that jiggled before that don't now…

Damn. I'm taken with the sudden urge to throw on running shoes and run a few laps around my sector, muggers be damned. I never knew I could look this way…

Someone in the back of my mind nags me. What did they do to me? How long was this going to last? What was the price? I brushed off the moral inquisition as I tore open my closet and studied the folded splashes of muted color. What was I going to do now? I had planned on simply lying in bed after they brought me home, recovering and wondering why I did this to myself. Hell, if I'm being honest with myself, I hadn't planned on coming home at all. I saw my apartment stripped and hosed down, paintings bagged and taken to the incinerator…

I grab an outfit I hadn't worn in years, and my hands shake. The last time was when Adrian took me out to Roddy's, and I told everyone the news. I had tried to look good that night, to look optimistic, to scrub the smell of death off of me. I knew one whiff of it would scare them away, and I was right. Light as watered-down perfume, sitting around me like a jealous lover, they caught it, and the fear it drove into their brains drove them away. I never saw any of them again, after that, beside the occasional mail of general concern. After a while, I stopped replying. Let them think I was dead.

I don the top, my heart racing. I'm going back to Roddy's. I'm reclaiming something that damn, nameless disease had stolen from me. I won. I simply can't believe that in the end, I won. I never win anything…

The pants slide over my hips, snugger than they used to be. I think of Adrian… He was the only one that kept coming to see me, until I simply told him to stop. At the time, I thought I had about a month left, and I didn't want him to see me still and plastic looking, face slack and hands crossed over my unmoving chest. I was glad I wouldn't have to see me that way. I didn't know at the time that I had another year of kick left in me.

ID in hand, I rush out the door, running my hand through my hair one last time. I don't take a bus. Right now, I feel clean, pure, like a shard of ice. I don't want to touch anything, lest the corrupting germs of this city get on me, and begin to eat away at me again. I skirt walls and winos, hop over cracks, and jog the fifteen minutes down to Roddy's Bar and Tav. I'm full of energy, and the walkways suddenly seem too small for me. I see the outer wall of the city, and realize that the whole damn system seems too small for me.

I don't take the lift down. I don't want to be cemented in with fifteen other strangers. Instead, in a flash of moxy that shocks my inner milquetoast, I grab a hold of one of the pillars that straddle the area between platforms and swing out. I hear an old woman gasp, and see a young couple stop to watch with interest, as I climb down it, hand over hand, sneakers gripping the rough, rusting metal. I hop onto the lower platform and smile, as the sounds of polite applause and laughter float down to me.

The smile doesn't last long.

I blink. The lighting down here isn't the lukewarm yellow I remember it to be. Instead, it looks like all the overheads have flickered out. The path is lit by glowing strips of light, twisted into letters that read 'Cold Beer' and 'Free Show.' They light a paper sign that reads '10 credit cover.' The name of the place is no longer Roddy's. The name of the place doesn't bear repeating, but I'll do it anyway: Carnal Capers. That's the newly painted sign… I can make out where underneath, someone had originally called the joint 'The Titty Twister.' I guess they decided to class up the place a smidge.

I don't know what to do. I know that when I open the door in front of me, it won't be the place I left three years ago, feeling numb. There won't be the faded posters on the wall, or the tables, shaped like clover leaves, bolted to the floor. There won't be the bar-- okay, I take that back. There will be a bar, but Charlie won't be behind it, dirty rag in hand, head gleaming, cigar rolling around in his mouth like he's eating it rather than smoking it. It'll probably be some buxom girl without enough rhythm to dance, but enough sense to flaunt what she has while serving up the fabricated booze. I lay my hand on the handle, torn. Why should I go inside? There's nothing there for me now… But it's like going to a funeral. You have to see the body before they throw it away. You have to see it's really gone, or you spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder.

Someone makes the decision for me. The door swings open suddenly, and I stumble forward with a shout. It's a grim man that stands before me, hair sheered nearly down to the scalp, with zigzags of lightning running from the front to the back. He's muscled, nicely muscled, and he seems to like showing off, wearing a taut tank top. Our eyes meet, and he cocks an eyebrow at me.

"Not your kind of place, chickie. Might want to move along."

I see the place he's talking about behind him. He's dead right. The air is stagnant, smelling of smoke and puke and sex, and where there used to be a dance floor, there's a stage, with the silhouettes of girls wrapping themselves around bars and flashing white teeth to the patrons like cameras. I stare… The bar's still there, same place, and I search for my imaginary beer tart… My heart leaps when I don't find her.

Charlie!

"Yeah," I reply with my best gruff girl attitude, "But I'm thirsty anyway." I swipe my card through the credit slit and breeze past him. That clear, pure feeling I had begins to fade the second I hit the fetid air.

Charlie sees me when I'm about ten feet away from him, and he blinks at me, like I'm a ghost. I guess I am a ghost, in a lot of ways, just one that still has to pay rent. He stops pushing his rag over the tired, water damaged counter, mouth slightly open, silver tooth I used to tease him about twinkling. I take the seat right in front of him, forcing my best Cherry smile, and slap my card on the table.

"Remember the usual?"

He nods numbly, turns, and returns with something dark and sickeningly sweet, not bothering to take my card. "Cherry," his lips mouth, but any voice is lost to the thudding base. He shakes his head and leans down, out faces inches apart. "Cherry," he says, and this time, I can hear him. "Cherry, we thought you were dead! Holy shit! You look great, kid!"

"So I noticed… It's some new program. Great thing I got into it. I was about a goner. Looks like you've, um, redecorated."

He looks embarrassed. "It wasn't long after you had to go. Roddy's just wasn't pulling in the dough, doll. You don't get the pub types down here, anymore. The seeds are moving up, and this is the kind of show they want. They got the money, so I put it on."

I nod. It's not his fault, but I still can't help but feel betrayed. More poingantly, I feel guilty. Maybe if I hadn't left... There's a certain karma about places like Roddy's, a sense of balance. Take away one piece… Let's just say I'm not the kind to blame economics first. "You know where anyone's gone?"

Charlie begins cleaning the counter again. "I think we'd better leave that for later, Cherry. I close at oh one hundred. It'll be quiet then. Just, uh, enjoy the show, until then." He moves away, too far to talk to, and I'm not given much of a choice in the matter.

Grumbling, and nervous, I turn, leaning my back against the bar and sip at my drink. This has never been my bag, and as I find out now, it still isn't.

I nurse my drink, empty it, find another at my elbow. Good old Char. Always knows how to take care of his own, you know? I empty that one, and wait for my body to relax, to melt into the beat of the music, but it doesn't come.

My eyes are drawn to one girl in particular, after a time—There isn't much else to watch. She moves with a grace that isn't practiced; it's just natural. Her hair is a mass of curl, as bouncy and lively as the orbs of flesh on her chest. She's not like the other girls. First of all, she isn't naked. It's only a few strips of fabric that cover her, but it's enough to deem her a prude in this world. It doesn't seem to be hurting her tips though. She has a smile to melt your thighs and eyes to speed your heart. She uses them to her full advantage, and over the thudding, monotonous base, I hear her laughter as she flirts with one of the sleezebag wallets that are at her pole. It's like a light rain in a drought, like the first rays of dawn after a long, sleepless night. I'm filled with the sudden, strange urge to protect her, to draw her down from her pole and throw a jacket over her exposed body, to take her home and…

I shiver. This isn't me… This isn't me at all.

Charlie is at my elbow again. "You like her? New girl. Goes by the name of Amy. Not the best stage name, but eh, she's new to it. She'll come up with something better."

I nod dumbly. Amy.

She looks over, and I think she glances at me, eyes flickering in the maddening sputter of the strobe lights. I look to the side, avoiding locking gazes with her. My face flushes, and I down the rest of my drink. In my attempt at running away without moving an inch, my eyes settle on someone else, someone sitting at her table, staring up with the same, slack jawed, transfixed stare. He's not remarkable, sitting in his light duster, hat underneath his chair, hands around a beer that was probably warm by now. He has a weak jaw and hands that don't look like they belong to any profession in particular. I try to guess what he does for a paystub (wanting to keep my mind off the dancer's study of me), and I guess at professional pervert. He looks the type to sit in seedy bars all day and work a few scams. He has an innocent, stupid face.

I feel the girl stop looking at me… Yes, feel. It's as if a heat lamp has been taken off of me, and the air and my skin suddenly cool. I glance at her. I'm right; she isn't looking at me anymore. Maybe it was just my imagination that I could feel her looking at me… Maybe I'm just a little drunk.

I turn towards the bar and notice, with a jolt of surprise, a small tower of empty cups, stacked about five high. I glance around. No one else is at the bar but me, but I don't remember drinking five drinks. I narrow my eyes and study them clinically, looking at the prints. I look at my fingertips. Whorls, just like mine, at least, as far as I can tell. They're my glasses.

My attention turns inwards, and I assess myself. I don't feel drunk. I don't even feel tipsy. Has Charlie been watering down his stock? Not bloody likely, in a strip joint. If anything, you want your clientele more drunk, not less.

The music thuds its way to a clumsy crescendo, and the dancers kick into high gear, milking the drunks for every slip of credit they have on their cards. Some descend into the truly gritty, using each other as props and toys, and finally allowing a few of the more bold customers get a quick feel, a frantic grab at flesh, at warmth. I feel filthy just watching it.

Amy doesn't wallow in the degradation of getting a few last dollars, though, and the man before, my part time pervert, doesn't reach out for her. I stare again, and I realize how she's different: she's a good dancer. Not a good stripper, no; she simply knows the ways to move, and how to use the music to her advantage. I can see her on stage, g-string replaced with a leotard, twirling to music of men long dead, from a world long dead. There is a dramatic flourish, and she ends, leg hooked around the bar, her spine arched backward, hair streaming to the floor, smile glowing in the blacklight, and the man studies her, as if for a painting. I realize then that he hasn't given her a single credit the whole time I'd been sitting at the bar, watching.

The girls waltz their way off stage, hooking a few guys in with smiles and winks, desperate for return business. Some of them aren't as sultry, but instead sulk their way off the stage, bodies beginning to sag and break, the signs of too many hard tweaks and late night written on them like cheap newsprint. They aren't long for the stage.

The lights loose their dreamlike state as the strobe shuts off, black lights fade, and the dim yellowed house lights sluggishly brighten. The men look around, as if caught unawares with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar, and begin to collect their affairs, guilt smeared across their face.

Charlie nudges me as the door slams shut and locks for the night, motioning to his back room. Time for the past, now.