There was one memory I brought to mind more than once, in the dark and cold nights, thin blanket over my aching form, pain keeping me awake. I toyed with it like a scab, using it to fill my bed.

"Men all want the same thing, Char." I had said. I didn't sound bitter... In fact, there was a certain balance I had felt I had achieved in accepting this. In ceasing to struggle, we win the war by simply refusing to fight.

Charlie scoffed. He hadn't reached my level of oneness with the universe. "Women want it, too, Ducks, just not like men want it. And at least they have sense enough to get it from magazines and cheap reads, rather than trashing their lives over it."

"Does my life look trashed?" I sniffed indignantly. Charlie and I didn't talk often, but tonight was a quiet night, and everyone else had a gig. We, the hobby friends, a bartender and an artist, were left alone to share the late afternoon.

"I think you're trashing it right nicely, by walking around pretending you don't want someone, or need someone."

"I never said that... I just said that I know what they want, and I've come to accept it as a part of the package. Mature of me, isn't it?"

"This bubble is too small for worldly, miss, and I know you're too young for it. Besides, you've got it stuck in your head its sex they want. That's not what anyone's really after. It's just a nice carrot to hang out front."

"Then what is it people want?" I swipe up my drink snippishly and sip. He laughs.

"Someone else to blame when things go to hell? What else?"

I study him now, in the glare of the bare bulb at the end of the desk. He's sagging a bit more around the edges, and there are lines here and there that weren't there a few years ago. His hands are criss-crossed with faint blue lines, and I catch where liver spots are beginning to form. I feel like shit for looking so good, so healthy, when I was supposed to be dying.

There was a time I thought he was attractive, in an older man kind of way, in the way the young pity the old, and want to make them feel alive again. I half considered batting my eyes when the others weren't there, striking up some saucy, private conversation, and let my youth seduce him. I didn't think he'd be any good, of course, but that wasn't what I was after. I just wanted to be adored.

I feel like shit for that too.

He serves up some of his private stock and sizes me up. I'd been a light drunk, back in my day, and he was seeing how I was holding up to the liquor line he'd been pouring me. He wants me soft, I can see that. He has something bad to tell me, and he'd rather have me liquid and vauge, like the smoke off a forgotten cigarette. I'm not. I feel rock solid. I feel like a goddess. He's obviously nervous about that, and splashes a little extra in my glass.

"We thought you were dead, Cher… I would've looked you up, if I'da thought anything else."

"I was close, Charlie… But what happened to the crew? Bull and Dia and Dax…"

He shifts in his chair, and while I know that chair is a far sight from cozy, it's not that uncomfortable. "Well… Dia and Dax were flying home from a gig one night, and caught the wrong end of a transport trailer…" He pauses, then, not knowing what to say, seeks out his words elsewhere. He rolls over to a data pad and his meaty fingers drag over it, pulling up a logged news file. He scrolls, searches, scrolls some more, then locates what he was searching for:

The article rambles on, and I do read it, to my credit. I don't remember it later, but I know my eyes took in the words, shaped them into meaning, coaxed the sterile wrappings of death into something I could grasp, something I could understand.

Charlie watches me, and I feel the need to say something, anything, to span the gulf between us, something about Dax and Dia, and what they meant to me, to us. I want to have a memorial right there, and if I were a magician, I would pull flowers out of my sleeves and deck the room in white lilies, light candles, hum the ancient hymns that managed to carry over from the old world. All I can do, though, is concentrate on the fact that they were a level six and a level two, and had their own flyer.

"Guess they had made it big, huh?" I mutter, turning off the reader.

"They did," Charlie sighs. "They really had hit it big. They didn't come down as often—who would, when you've got money to go home to?—but you could tell they were trying to say goodbye. Dia would just cry and cry when I had to close shop, like it would be the last time any of us would be together again, and I would tell her not to be stupid… That she'd be down next month, like always…"

"Maybe she knew," I say softly, and he pauses, then nods. Dia had always had a touch of the sight, as she called it. Dax called it the 'weirding way' and Adrian and I just called it weird. Charlie called it useless if all she saw were sad things.

"I think she did," Charlie says. "Fat lot of good it did her or Dax. They had a showing off, but there weren't many there. Just Adrian and me, and her folks. We would've dragged you out, but as I said…"

"Don't worry about it," I said quietly. "I wouldn’t have done anyone any good."

He nods, face drooping. "That funeral was the last time I saw Adrian. We shook hands at the end, called for taxis, and that was it. Never set a foot in the bar after that. I hear he signed up for military service, and the popped him down in an eastern sector, but that's just what I got from a friend of a friend of a friend. I meant to look into it, but you know how the bar is. I don't exactly get vacation from it."

I finish my drink, and as I look around, I realize how small the room has gotten over the last half-hour. I feel the air compress around me, making it harder to squeeze out my breaths in rugged gasps. My skin seems to harden at the touch of tragedy, no longer complying with my desire to show some sort of reaction, some sort of emotion. I sit there, a mannequin, limbs frozen in shock.

"I'd better go," I croak, forcing myself to stand and set the drink down. Charlie jumps up, still soft and expressioned. The air isn't affecting him. Wrinkles build up as worry sets into his face.

"Cherry, why don't you stay here tonight? I got a couch you can crash on in my flat. This is no time of night to be walking home." He reaches out and touches my arm, and I note the roughness of the fingers, the smell of booze rubbed into them over thirty years tending bar. I see everything about him in stunning detail, as if he hadn't been quite life size before, but now, took up the space of my existence. I back away.

"No," I hear myself say soft. "I'll be fine. Really." I turn and walk out the door, tossing it aside on its hinge like a lazy saloon door instead of the cast iron monstrosity it really is. I hear him follow me, knocking into his desk, caught in the web of his mismanaged office, and I break into a sprint.

The street outside is empty, yet not. Instead of warm bodies, there are shadows sulking in the spaces of doorways or windows, or alleyways. The lights that give us our doses of vitamin D and our prehistoric desire for sun are off now, set to a dull glimmer that I suppose is meant to emulate the moon and stars. My feet are pistons against the ground, and I feel my skin go from hard to metal. I don't feel human anymore. That's what they did to me… They made me into a machine… I won't have to grieve… Machines don't grieve…

I see a flicker of movement in an alleyway, and the half-lit night goes dark.

I wake up in bed.

There is no transition, besides the knowledge that I've slept quite a while. I lay there some time, in a stupor, wondering if it had been a dream. I test my body for aches and pains and slow degradation: nothing. At least that wasn't a dream.

I sit up, and my head whirls. The hardness is gone that I felt, and the expressionlessness. Tears well up. No. I must have dreamed about Roddy's, and Charlie, and everyone being gone…

My head pounds, and I no longer feel invincible. The clearness, the hardness, the purity, it's been ripped from me, crumpled up, rubbed in the scum of the city and left for the trash collector. I no longer feel great, but very, very small. Reality becomes a thin line to walk.

I don't know what to do. The possibilities surround me and assault me, ripping at my bedclothes and my soul. I could paint, but the task seems so ordinary to me, so mundane, so natural, that in my state, it seems ludicrous. I think of looking up the accident report from the illusionary last night, to see if it does exist, and if Dax and Dia, in fact, do not. I entertain the notion of going on a trek to the east quad, walking among the stern faced military in search of that weak jaw, those brown eyes, all the bits and pieces that make up Adrian. I picture throwing my arms around his stiff uniform, crushing him inside of it, feeling him reach up and grasp at me, as if to keep me from fading… But while I can feel it happening, I cannot see it happening… I can't fathom delicate Adrian in the gray plastic casings of the military…

And then, I think of going to Roddy's… no, if last night did happen, it would be Carnal Capers… Going to the bar, looking Charlie in the eye, and ordering the usual. Amy might be working… I could watch her again, until closing, and Charlie and I can talk. Maybe the stingy perv won't be there.

I rise. It's the only sensible thing to do… Go see for myself if it's all true, and play my cards from there. I shower, dress, and am on the street, hair slicked back into a braid, skin still slightly damp as I march through the morning traffic.

I'm no sucker for denial. By the time I reach the bar (foregoing the acrobatics) I'm no longer hoping that it was a dream. I'm proven right, the brashness of the memory confirmed by the scrawling neon and heavy steel door, and the moody bouncer standing outside, arms over his chest. He goes to stop me, and I give him a world-weary look, the same from the night before. He recognizes me and steps aside, muttering a warning to me about me not making the other customers nervous, or pulling any 'dirty dyke' tricks. I ignore him.

Charlie's behind the counter, serving a few wiry, wide eyed guys their bourbons. They're dressed in vent jumpers, pale blue uniforms that zip you up in jean from neck to ankle. The suits aren't that dirty; I figure they're new hires, celebrating their first paycheck... First time they have real money to call their own, and they spend it on eye candy. I sigh, not so inwardly.

Charlie motions for me to sit, that he'll be with me in a moment. I nod, take a stool, and look to see which girl they're watching. It's some big breasted dark-haired girl, probably enhanced down to her toe nails. She doesn't smile much, but instead, has this sultry pout on her face. I immediately dislike her. Poor, stupid men. She can't even muster up enough to smile for them, and they plunk money into her account, because they're sure as hell not going to get anything else into her.

Two tables over is Amy, looking great, wearing slightly less than the night before. The three tyros don't notice her, even if she is a better dancer, a better looker, with a better body. I almost get angry over the injustice of it...

My eyes drift down, and I see the same guy from the night before, though his hair is better combed today. I wait. He doesn't put a single swipe in the slot before him. He just stares at her... It's eerie, and I begin to feel my flesh crawl. There's nothing sexual about the look he gives her, nothing base... It's an appraising look, perhaps even stunned, as if he was being presented a priceless piece of art after only having seen gritty black and while pictures of it for years. I know that look... That's the look I was giving her just a few seconds ago.

A drink is slammed down beside me, and I see Charlie's meaty, vein covered hand attached to it. "Glad to see you made it home alright," he says in the admonishing tone of a betrayed parent. "You could have been killed. We had some kind of gang thing break out just a few blocks up. I'm telling you, this trash… Almost enough to make you move, some days…"

I take the drink, only half hearing him, his speech recorded in my mind like etchings on a paper when the pen's ink has run out: impressions. "I can take care of myself," I say vaguely and rise, my goal the little round table with Amy atop, like a cherry.

I settle in next to the cheapskate pervert, noting how normal he looks, how placid. Of course, of course. They're always like that, at first. Amy quirks an eyebrow at me settling in, but, with a tittering laugh, seems game enough. She flits her hair at me and looks pleased at some of the reactions at another table… They must think I'm part of the act. What guy doesn't like a little girl on girl play?

Perv doesn't seem to notice me at first, but my attention warms next to him like a cooking coil, subtle at first, then burning. He turns his head and looks at me, then, with a curious tilt of his head, begins to study me back.

It becomes a game, though I'm not certain what the prize is, or even the rules. The first to look away buys a round? Leaves the table? Jumps off the walk outside and takes the fast way to Hell? It lasts a good sixty seconds before one of us moves.

"You're not a regular," he says in an even, modulated voice, and I feel cheated. He's talking! That has to be breaking the rules, isn't it?

"I used to be… back when this was a pub. I take it you are a regular?"

"Not at all. I'm just here for Amy."

"Ah… Groupie or something?"

"No. We're acquaintances, of a sort."

I fume, and I worry that I'm not being as subtle about it as I think. "Of a sort? What kind of sort? Seems like you're buddy enough to watch her and not pony up."

"The same could apply to you." He watches as I slide my card through the tip slot, and punch in the worth of a few of my smaller prints. He shrugs. "Amy and I have been through a lot together. You would have to know…" He stops as Amy notes the tip, and gives us—me—a few minutes of heightened entertainment. Surprisingly, I don't feel at all titillated. I should feel that, good as she is, and as obsessed as I'm becoming. Instead, it feels like a token, like a kiss on the cheek after a date. It's expected, that's all.

Suddenly, I hear him break the silence with, "So, got a name?" and I reply dumbly, "Sure, Cherry." I cringe. I hadn't been expecting to give out anything about myself to the perv and apparent best buddy of Amy. A name is a bad place to start, if you're failing at holding back information.

"Cherry," he repeats, and holds out his hand. "Damien." I stare at the hand, wonder where it's been, but, not wanting to feel like a total freezer queen, I take it and shake it, being sure to torque some of my new found strength into him. I'm surprised when he doesn't even wince, but instead, returns his own fierce, unrelenting, and just as powerful grip.

Amy stops dancing above us as the music changes, and she hops onto a walk to go to the backrooms. Damien rises. "Her break time," he says, turning his back on me, and I smile. Good. He won't see me follow.

Walking to the back room, I begin to wonder what's wrong with me. I've had lovers before, even some I really, really, liked, but I was never obsessed. Hell, I'm not even this obsessed over my art, and all artists are supposed to be slaves to their canvas.

I take a detour right before the backroom and slink over to the bar. I rest my head on my arms and look forlornly at the lines of brightly colored bottles. Charlie is at my side in after a minute.

"Cher…" He pauses. Charlie isn't a master of words, but he knows when he needs to put them together carefully. He fits them in his mind before they come spitting out, either beanbags or live grenades. "Cherry, you look like you need a drink. Here, this one's new. Called a White Angel." He mixes me something complicated, and I give him an 8.7 for not asking me why I seemed to like his new girl so much. I sip at the thing—it's served in a round little bowl, and tastes like turpentine, and he touches my shoulder. "I'm glad you came back, Cherry. You had me worried. You're all I have left of the old place… Even the guys who stuck through the change are different. They don't look at a strip joint owner like they do a pub owner."

I nod. "Figures. Didn't I tell you once that sex changes everything?"

"Yeah. I think it was attached to your argument about why I shouldn't hit you over the head for sleeping around."

"I stand true to my point. At least everything changes in the beginning, not towards the middle, when there's a solid middle to be shaken apart."

He doesn't respond to that, and instead, looks at the curtain marking of the dancer's private area. "You seem to like the new girl, Amy. Didn't, uh, didn't know that you were into that sort of thing."

"I'm not," I reply softly, brow furrowed. "It's just… she's a good dancer. And… and does that guy always follow her back? I thought that was a no-no in strip clubs."

"Who, Damien? Eh, he's harmless. They were in some kind of clinic together, from what I gather. Real sick, the two of them, and they were in the same program to cure whatever it was they had. Looks like their fine now, though the boy could use some more weight on him, I think."

I nod morosely, and Charlie nudges my shoulder. "Hey, you know, they're here all the time… I mean, of course Amy is. She works for me. But he sees her every chance he gets, and she stops in even if she isn't working. Why don't I introduce you? You could use some new lads to hang out with, now that you're back on the outside." I start to tell him the last thing I want to do is to be buddies with that name-grabbing freak, but he's already pressing his school ring into my hand. "Here. Show them this, and they'll let you in the back. Go on… It'll do you some good, kid." He shoves me off my seat and takes my drink from me. I turn, grumbling, wondering when the hell he had decided to reincarnate into my absent father, and make for the back room.

I flash the ring, silver, with a pock-marked red stone in the center of it, and the bouncer at the curtain looks over the insignias on the side, then nods. He lifts the curtain, and I enter the backstage of a poor man's Sodom and Gomorrah.