She smiled, demurely and reached out to touch his hand. Her hand moved slow, her long delicate fingers seemed to absorb light. They reached his hand and wrapped around it slowly, then, squeezed, ever so gently. Her hand then retreated, to rest once again in her own lap.

Simon marveled at the warmth of her skin, the almost too human face. She blinked and smiled up to him.

“Why do you stare at me Simon?”

“Because you are a marvel.” He smiled. “Do you love me, Symphony?”

“Of course Simon.”

“Are you just saying that because you know that it’s what I want to hear?”

“No.”

“Are you just saying that because you are programmed to?”

“No.”

“How do you know what love is?”

Symphony cocked her head and narrowed her eyes, an all too human expression of puzzlement.

“Because you make me happy.”

“Yes, but how do you know that?” He persisted. He looked away from her and stared out into the cold night. His eyes caught the thruster flare of a ship, far off, preparing to leave orbit. “Aren’t you programmed to love me?”

“Aren’t you programmed to laugh when something is funny?” She countered,

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t have programming.”

“That is debatable.”

He sighed. “But how do you know it’s not just a series of complex instructions?”

“I know it because I smile involuntarily when you are near. I know it because I derive pleasure from your happiness. I know it, because I do.”

“But that could be programming! Subtle, yes, and genius, yes, but it still could be programming.”

“Does it make it less real for you knowing that you are supposed to feel a thing when certain stimuli occur?”

He turned and looked at her. Her womanly shape relaxed in the contoured co-pilots chair, her skin glittering somewhere between rosey-pink and flickering stars. He almost believed her. Then she looked out into space and her eyes flicked, her irises constricted and her pupils flared, micro-miniature circuitry was pulsing to life just behind the curve of her blue eyes. She’d seen that engine flare as well.

“Simon. It’s a pursuit craft. We need to leave.” Symphony announced non-chalantly as she began to buckle herself into her seat.

“We’re in the que, we’ll get our chance soon.”

“Negative, Simon. We’re in danger.”

“What!?”

Symphony’s fingers flew over the ships controls and the darkened bridge lit up with hundreds of displays and lights and switches. She moved with frightening speed and grace. She continued to speak.

“Please, Love, strap yourself in. Prepare for dimension fold.”

“Right here?”

“I’m afraid so.” Her voice was low, soothing.

“Don’t worry love. I won’t let them hurt you.” And as she spoke, she coded in the incredibly complex figures for their impending leap through time and space. Figures, that would take most normal computers hours to crunch, a human perhaps days. This was why he didn’t believe she loved him, but it was certainly why he loved her.

And then they jumped through space and left time to sort itself out.

The world became solid and time took up its vigil again as the small shuttle materialized from its dimension fold. Simon blinked and turned to Symphony. Symphony moved from her seat and swept her hand over the ship’s control, gracefully putting it to sleep.

“Where are we?” Simon asked, rising from his own seat and moving up beside Symphony. He put his arms around her waist and pulled her close. He grinned as she playfully struggled, wriggling gently in a feigned attempt to escape his embrace.

“We are nowhere, my Love.” She pointed to the star charts.

“Why?”

“It was the only place I knew that no one was.” She smiled at him.

“They’ll be coming for us, for you.”

“And you.”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do Simon?”

One cigarette left, he reached for it as he slewed into another curve. Grasping the pack, he leaned back and put the last smoke between his lips, holding it there, tasting it, as he pushed the buttons on the radio obsessively. Country and Classic Rock crowded each other on these peripheral airwaves, in valleys and behind hills sometimes mixing together, overlapping.

Settling on something akin to Cheap Trick, he pushed in the car cigarette lighter, thankful for the small things, he smiled knowing that these ancient thunderous cars at least had the ability to make fire.

The cigarette was mostly of no consequence. A taste, quickened pulse, a dryness in his throat. Streams of white looked as if they were being torn from his mouth and nostrils as he flew across the landscape. He pretended he was Paul Revere, believed he was Phillipides, marathon runner of Athenian fame, he was in a brittle trance, cheetah and comet, at once with purpose and mindless.

The smoke faded, chewed itself away and its corpse out the window.

More speed, the sun, the sun, waves of heat, tides of reality warping temperature, pulsed up from the road in half-visible ripples. Faster yet, and music, and the joy in this young man’s heart was undeniable. He felt he flew towards destiny, unrepentant, the universe’s locus for kinetic fantasy.

He reached for the pack, found it empty. He glanced to the half-empty, warm can of coke in the drink holder, back to the road, the dash, the road, the check engine light.

The light was not new. It had evolved from source of paranoia and frustration to a friendly reminder. Time to let the beast rest, let the steel flame-eater cool its burning heart. All horses needed to drink.

He brought himself up, out from his auto-pilot trance and took in the terrain.

“The map is not the terrain…” he said aloud as he looked for signs of civilization. Brother to Theseus that he was, civilization was any spot with strong drink and shelter from the rain.

Not too much later he saw the spot. Civilization was a collection of loosely affiliated cross roads. Paths cut into reality by men with ambition. At each crossroad, there was always a marker, some stalk of signage to remind one that yes, though long lost to distance and woeful wilderness, they still were real.

“In the desert you can remember your name…” he muttered as he slowed the car, the steel extension.

He pushed the wheel around, guided the slowing car from the melting blacktop, felt the change of speed in his stomach, the vibrations from the gravel and dirt parking lot in his bones.

Fully stopped, he left the windows wide open and popped the hood. He gingerly lifted the heavy plate of steel, and propped it up. He gave it a casual inspection, eyes stopping on hard mechanical shape he recognized but did not understand. Wires and tubes, blades and oils, it all looked like it always looked. That was something.

He turned to head into the small corner store that made up this splash of civilization, he needed another coke and more smokes, and stopped dead in his tracks.

Walking, no, flowing towards him was a leggy woman with caramel skin and sandy hair tied on top of her head. She wore a tank top, each step a direct challenge to his decorum. He removed his sunglasses and squinted, then decided eye-contact might be too much for him, and put the shades back on.

“Hi.” She smiled at him. “Car trouble?”

“What? Ah, no. Uh, just givin’ it some air.” His natural dialect was relaxed, a slangish, lazy way of communicating. It made him sound uneducated, a cultivated habit. People expect less of the ingnorant.

She nodded. “I see that. Why?”

“Well, the light comes on.” He said. She kept walking towards him until she stood a foot away. She was almost his height and looked right into his eyes.

“The bad light?”

“Check engine.”

She nodded. “Oh, sorry. I’m a little forward.” She stuck out her hand, “Cassia.”

“Cassia.” He repeated. “Uh, Jack.”  Halloween Jack Soiree, he said to himself, in his funny voice that made him smile. She smiled too and for a split second, he wondered if he’d said it aloud.

She stood too close. He could feel the heat of her skin above and beyond the stifling summer sun. She pulled a cigarette, the symbol of patience and openness, a sure sign of sharing, in that certain world, lit only by grim and dim yellow bulbs and neon lights.  It made him thirsty.

“Here.” She pushed the cigarette in his direction. He took it, confused. She nodded towards the crushed and empty pack of camels in his hand. “You’re out.”

He put the cigarette to his lips and stuck his hands in his pockets, searching for a lighter, which wasn’t there. He used the precious piece of retro technology, the car-lighter, while he was driving.

She deftly produced a lighter, touched the flame to the tip of the smoke and backed away. He breathed deep.

“You’re thirsty. I was headin’ cross the street. Interested?”

He nodded dumbly as he turned his head in the direction she indicated. There sat a squat broawn building. A screen door rocked gently in its hinges, occasionally building up the nerve to bang sharply. A faded neon sign sputtered in the window, decrying the presence of some obscure local flavor. Music seeped out of the door, low and steady, it seemed to creep across the road, like a snake.

He looked away, felt his satisfaction with life fade, felt a strange hunger, felt weak. 

Wrecked cars and dust on my boots, me with nowhere to know, knowing everyplace I could go. I just sat there, in the heat, a lizard on a rock. Dust in the distance and divine chemistry, making things to put in my body, feeling hurtful things, animals of silicone and microscopic proportion. They waged the war I waged, against all things from the Outside. These nanite-antibodies reinforced walls and made things strong, things that should fall were kept up high.

My eyes watered in the flying dust, and adjusted the level of silicone lubricant released by my new hitatchi tear ducts. I blinked twice and received the internal report “foreign body removed“. I laughed at the irony of this and moved towards the car I hadn’t seen pull up.

It was grim and that magic red color, covered in a skin of dust and a sheen of diesel sweat. It was crouched like a hunting cat. My eyes traced its contours and I blushed like a boy seeing a nude woman for the first time. My mouth watered at the thought of plugging in and letting my soul caress its controls, the hard leather and a twice coiled fly-by-impulse preaction-pre-response computer. I wondered what it called itself.

Then out of the car stepped its master, mistress, monster. Nine feet tall and the earth cracked as she stepped across it. She burned the ground, stole its water and left glass footprints in the sand.

“That yours?” I asked, thinking it might be right proper for me to vent this monster bitch and take those wheels. That was our way out here, at Gold Water Oasis. She must know it, other wise she wouldn’t be out here, out this far.

“No.” Her voice was low and thick, clear, over the racing wind.

“Looking to trade?”

“No, it’s a gift.”

“For who?”

“You, of course.”

I slowly moved my hand towards my gun. No one gives out at the Oasis.

“I don’t think that’s right. I don’t know you.”

“Course not. But I know you. You’ve been dreaming about a car the color of a dying sun. This is the car. This is the one.”

I studied her. No weapons. Just those eyes, fairly crackling with power. She stepped closer, the earth groaned and I tensed.

“No need for violence, manling. Take this gift and drive, off into your precious desert. Out where you are alone, where your mind means nothing and your only definition is your actions. You do like to act, yes? You’re one of those, those few who do and not say…”

The sky was cloudy, unusual for a hot day. The sun cut a hole in the silky veil and sent a column of light down, just for me.

“But your actions cost you don’t they?” She studied me, her unnatural eyes, locked mine, then glanced down to my new arm, the steel and myomer miracle.

“You’ve already paid your price. Drive.”

She threw the keys, then, shining silver things, fast and hard. My right arm flew up to grasp them, my false arm drew my pistol and in that nanosecond my Hitatchis took to reset the vision frame, the she-demon was gone. I looked at the keys. They were just keys. Three silver things, flat, un-marked.

I walked over to the car. Got in. The inside was cramped and soft and I barely fit. There was no way the giant-demon-woman could have driven this car.

I pulled the neuro-lead from the dash and slid it into third slot on back of my false wrist. Red runes flashed across my eyes, ancient runes, esoteric messages only I could see, only I could understand.

“She’s no demon, child. She is Athena.” The car said, when my mind tried to touch it. The voice was feminine, but clipped, reserved.

“The goddess?” I queried.

“The same.”

“And why is she giving me a car?”

“Not a car. I am The Car. I am motion and grace and love. I am happiness and joy. I am that fleeting moment all men dream of. The control of a wild thing, the tame shrew. I am power un-earned.”

I failed to understand. I said so.        

“I am the car the color of the dying sun. I am your dream.”

“I’m dreaming now.”

“More often than not.”

I pushed the keys into her and turned them gently. The tumblers rolled and soothed and the ignition fired and there was a great release, I felt it in my mind, then the steady rhythm. Perhaps this thing was joy, was bliss. The bliss of motion. My mind rolled backwards to those long dead days, with runners, and horses, and chariots. The race. The run.

“Why me?” I asked.

“Why not?”

“That’s a stupid answer.” I gently rubbed the throttle with my mind.

“It’s an answer.” She started, a roar, then a purr.

“Give me a better one.”

“You are doomed to do. You are damned to believe.” She said, as I put her in reverse and turned the wheel. She thought for a half nanosecond about arguing with me, I felt it in her throat, she thought better of it, I guess.

“So she gave me a car?”

“The Car. But yes, more or less, that’s the big and small of it.”

Forward, we raced, through the desert away from the new night and the golden oasis. The roads were hard and black. Bleak angry things, the yellow was faded, the streaking line almost gone. Time and sun cracked the roads, ruptured them, twisting them upwards and inwards, leaving them… broken.

“What shall I call you?” I asked the car.

“Whatever you like.”

“Am I in her debt? Am I her servant now?”

“You always have been.”

“Is it her way to recruit unwilling servants with bribes?”

“How do you know you are unwilling? She’s not asked anything of you yet, manling.”

“How will I know what she would have of me?”

“How does any believer know what their god wishes of them?”

“Oracles. Priests.”

“Perhaps we should see the Oracle. Or even a priest.”

“I’ve got little use for those types.”

“As does Athena. But they have their role, like you do yours.”

“You’re quite knowledgeable for a car.”

“I am The Car. You may call me Pacifica.”

“Okay, Pacifica, how is it you know so much?”

“I was forged on Olympus, by Hephaestus, crafted piece by piece, by the God-Artificer himself.”

“Huh.”

“Like you.”

“What?”

“You are merely an instrument of the Gods as well. Your arm, your eyes, machines, of course made by man, but who gave them that knowledge? Who cut your meat-flesh from the hard earth? Who programmed your codes? Who made it possible for you to exist? Are you not the ultimate example of divine machinery?”

I thought on that for a hard minute, while I did so, I pushed Pacifica hard, and she smirked at me in my mind, we traveled across the hard baked sands and failing concrete paths at scathing speeds, out, here, alone. Then.

“I see your point, Pacifica. But I am a…ah, far removed from divinity.”

“Yes.”

“And you are not.”

“I am not holy. I am crafted by holy fingers.”

“And you seem to know everything.”

“I know much that is not known, yes, but far from everything.”

“What happens when we find the ocean?”

“We will have to stop.” She said, with out humor.

“I have… a… destiny?”

“All things do. Few recognize them. Few fulfill them.”

“But the world is wrecked, and I think I’m mad.”

“Both of these things are true. But you also believe.”

And then we reached the ocean,  many hours later, Pacifica and I. We stopped and she asked me if I was “Well”

“Of course.” I lied to her.

The ocean was deep and vast and dark, briny and cold. I scanned the horizon with my Hitatchi eyes and saw not one sail, not one ship.

Pacifica then spoke to me. “It is as Athena said. The world is dead or dying and you are mad.”

“Then why take me here with your brutal haste and loving speed? Could I not have remained mad at my Gold Water Oasis?”

“Ah, but that is it, child, remained…”

“Yes, so, what of it? Let me guess… a lecture on confidence and change, and the self evolution event that so few of us are allowed to participate in? More of your god-forged psycho-babble…”

“Do you deny that change forces us to grow?” The car was mocking me.

There were bleak mountains in the distance and I considered driving her from the cliff. Damn her divine artificers! We’d see if she was holy or not…

“You’re thoughts turn dark, but for no good reason. I am yours to do with as you please. To destroy me would be… wasteful, but I will not stop you.”

“Let me suppose then, on your mechanical life, that it is not my destiny to do so, is it?”

“You suppose correctly, manling.”

“What is destiny?”

“It is that thing the gods said you must do, written in heaven when you were named from above, you take the name of….” the car paused in its speech. I turned to the ocean and there saw three ships, sails red and full.

“… you take the name of eternity, thus you shall always be. You, of all shall be plagued and hounded and forced and coerced and ridden and railed. But you shall then rally and redouble and doubt not and stay your hand when all works to force it, you shall force your hand when all works to stay it. You, manling, are paradox, like all your brothers and sisters.”

“You speak in riddles, Car the Color of a Dying Sun.”

“You make riddles from truths. All mankind does this thing. That is why your world is laid waste and the gods taunt you with smart ass machines like myself.”

“I am truly mad.”

“And always have been.”

I turned to the sea again. Ships now, full sails and ominous.

“Those ships…”

“Yes,” Pacificia answered before I asked. “Heralds of change. Things you cannot understand. God-loving priests with great machines and little madness.”

“Then they are those who escaped our destruction?”

“Are there any who could escape you, oh eternal paradox?”

“Some. Many.”

“Fewer than you think. But come. Let us off to the south, to the dryer lands and cleaner roads.”

“To what end? To just drive through time and space?”

“What else would a madman do?”

“I am confused.” I sat in the car and plugged in, touching its mind with mine. We started off, slow, then fast, faster yet and with a bright sun easing its way low, we scorched another lonely highway.

“You are not confused. You never have been. You are simply mad.”

“I don’t understand…” I shook my head, fearful, trying to understand this great machine I’d been given. I looked to the skies for signs from Olympus, I looked to the sea on right for signs from Below. I fell backwards into my neural processor and ran through patterns and systems, control specs and maintenance routines, anything and everything, looking for logic, looking for patterns. I found none. None until I turned my mind to the mind of the Car. It showed me a great a pattern. It was a pattern older than memory, mine, at least. It was carved in the very earth and it crossed every continent, every land, every place, every town, every city. I calmed then and followed the pattern.

I let my mind fly along its designs and I realized, I was on this pattern, a part of it.

“It is a testament to the grandiose designs of man, his ambition to dominate the world. His unwillingness to live with it, his desire to live above it.”

“It’s beautiful…” I breathed.

“It’s dangerous.” said Pacifica.

He was an agent of change. Real, tangible change. Where he passed, ripples shook society and ground alike. Nothing could be the same after an agent of changed passed this way.  He’d been sitting motionless for hours or years, now. Timed-release narcotics saturating his blood. He blinked once a minute, and then not out of need, but habit.

He lay prone, on his stomach, sharp rocks gouging at his insides. He barely noticed them when he’d chosen this spot, now, after what seemed like years of waiting, he didn’t notice them at all.

The tools of his trade were many and varied, but in this particular instance, he chose an old standard, the first tool any agent of change must know intimately; violence.

From his vantage point, he could see a town spread out below, arrayed in a spider-web fashion, streets like spokes radiating out from a central point. That point, was the reasons the agent of change had come. That point was why change was necessary. That point was, for all intents and purposes, a church.

Mental games were a big part of the agent’s routine. So many hours spent motionless, boredom threatened to become psychosis, and needed to be kept in check. The chemicals and narcotics could help still the body, but the mind that was hidden behind those motionless eyes was a whirling storm, a processing center where torrents of data fed into his awareness, being sorted and cross-referenced.

In his mind’s eye, he’d painted everything. He ran his imaginary brushes over every inch and curve, corner and cranny of the scene before him. He’d painted the town in several styles, imitating the great masters from ages past. He’d sculpted it, etched the town in bronze, and even made it of stained glass. In his minds eye, he’d re-arranged the local star systems and super imposed them over his view, a galactic connect-the-dots…

A snowflake settled on his eye, immediately following his last blink. It stung only slightly, but blurred his vision. He hesitated, an uncharacteristic act, and then blinked the snowflake away.

The sun was setting in the west, and it had long since stopped snowing. The agent of Change was about to render the scene before him in an impressionist style, when one of those streams of cerebral data tripped a wire in his subconscious.

It was an encrypted satellite feed. It warned him that the tides of change were building, something was about to happen, something was moving, somewhere, so near. He let his mind activate those nerves along his extremities that had been quiet so long. He flexed his fingers and tested his muscles. His brain reorganized the cocktail mix in his mission gland and he began to come alive. With practiced ease, he flipped open the cover to his instruments scope, let his eye dilate the retinal range finder. He was suddenly quite aware of the rifle held in his arms for so long. It was hard and cold, and for a brief moment it felt alien. This all passed when he saw the door to the church crack open and warm gold light spill out into the darkening streets.

Priests. What good are they anyhow? Rabble rousers, hypocrites. This particular one had raised the ire of the powers-that-be on one too many worlds. He spoke less of the gods and worship, than he did of rights and fair play. He spoke of labor practices and organized movements.

By the time the Priest left his central abbey, a heavy darkness had settled on the small village. The priest, wrapped in non-descript brown robes, hefted a lantern in one hand and in his other, held the hand of a small child.

The agent of change watched silently as the priest warded off the gloom and walked the child through the streets. Two blocks later, they were met at the door by a young woman. She wore the uniform of a miner and was still smeared with dust and oil, her nose and cheeks still red from a days exposure to the freezing wind. She knelt and hugged the small child, then ushered her through the door. The agent of change could see the woman’s face clearly through his scope, she was thanking the priest, nearly in tears. She invited the priest in, but he refused. He smiled and went on his way. She watched him go, and only until he’d turned the corner and was no longer visible did she close the door.

The agent of change watched him go, watched him through the scope, resting the reactive-crosshairs on his temple, then his ear, then his eye. The priest walked steadily, each step purposeful, the lantern held aloft, chasing away the gloom.

From his high perch, the agent of change smiled. There were always ripples where he passed, from the ground itself to the highest strata of culture and politics. HE flipped his scope closed, let go of the trigger. As he walked away, his mind into itself, he realized that’s what priests do: chase away the gloom. 

Kali sat next to me on the train. Her eyes were half closed, but I could see her irises were gold. She had six arms and each of her hands, beautifully manicured. Gold and bronze bracelets jingled softly as she shifted her arms. This Hindu goddess of destruction sat nearly motionless, as if in meditation. her only movement was a slight swaying as the train rocketed through the tunnel.

Her torso was nearly bare except for a golden chain bra that barely covered her three full breasts. Her legs were muscular and ended in talon-like feet. Around her neck and head hung several delicate chains made of gold.

Across from Kali sat a female parking cop. She had short-cropped black hair that stood up in all directions. It was cute in a boyish sort of way. She watched her feet as we rode the train, looking up only to steal an occasional glance at Kali the Destroyer. The meter maid had boring eyes, brown or maybe they were brown. Her hands were delicate, thin. Her skin was pale. I followed her eyes to her shoes. She wore matte black boots, clean, freshly oiled. Her whole body was straight, angular. Compared to Kali, she was like a small boy. She fidgeted with her book of parking tickets, flipping them like you would a deck of cards. Something about her said “desperation”. I named her Rita. I decided I liked Rita.

Next to the meter maid was a proctologist. I could tell her was a proctologist because under his coat was a name tag that read “A.S. Ore – Proctology”. I surmised it stood for Arthur Samuel or even Assisting Surgeon. Part of me wanted to believe it stood for Ass Searcher. He looked tired. Cranky. His blonde hair was perfect, oil slicked back. Around his neck was a small silver chain with a small cross dangling vulnerably. He tapped his feet and fiddled with his cell phone. As if handling it would make it work better, or make that important person call him back even sooner. I followed his gaze to Kali’s three golden breasts. He stared blatantly, as if it were his right. Considering his occupation, maybe it was. His hands were big, rough. I always imagined a proctologist would have soft and nimble hands. I did not like this impatient proctologist. I named him Anal Satisfaction.

So there I was, trapped on the train with Kali, Hindu Goddess of Destruction, Lovely Rita, the Meter Maid, and Anal Satisfaction, the pissed off Proctologist.

I decided I would see what sort of conversation I could start off between the four of us.

“I like your bracelets.” I said awkwardly to Kali. Her eyes flicked open and she turned to face me.

“Thank you.” Her voice was deep and melodic, “They are gifts from a demon who proclaims his love for me.”

“They’re lovely.” Rita piped up, her voice squeaky.

“Did you say Demon?” Anal Satisfaction asked.

“Yes.” Kali replied. “A Demon. Kolvatarynya, Lord of the Seventh Hell and the Burning Plains.”

“He sounds successful. How long have you know him…?” Rita asked, leaning forward.

“Many thousands of years.” Kali replied.

“So it’s a pretty serious relationship then?”

It lands on the television screen. An enormous expanse of glowing colors and shapes, flickering, overloading the fly’s multifaceted eyes. If you were to look close you’d see mirror-perfect reflections of a million dreams, sports gods and local hope for a sportier tomorrow. It raises its forelegs and drags them across its illuminated eyes, swipe, repeat.

Upon close inspection the insect’s visage is hideous. Bulbous head, cruel mouth ringed with tendrils and appendages, hooks and tongues, those special things that nightmare is born from. Watching longer still, the mindless thing twitches and flexes, its entire body seems pregnant with some alien horror. Back to those cunning eyes, the head shifts, reflected heroes fade and light pushes forth another character.

A kindly old woman sits at a polished wooden table, her elderly husband stares at the screen, not seeing the fly, for his vision is poor, but he knows his team, he knows which colors are his pride, which represent mid-western righteousness. His wife, the old woman, talks on.

“It was such a peculiar plant. I got it at the farmer’s market. So odd. I’ve never seen anything like it.” She stops in her retelling of the tale to watch a young woman, two tables over, light a cigarette. The old woman frowns. “Such a peculiar plant.”

At the bar, directly under the fly, a young man sits. He listens to the old woman’s story without turning around. He is reminded of a movie. Such a peculiar plant. The young man didn’t like place. He was accustomed to certain patterns. This pattern unnerved him. They frosted their mugs here, so your beer came cold, but in moments was watery. More watery American beer. He stared at the television screen, the one where the fly rested, and did not see either the fly or the screen. He just stared and sipped watery beer.

The bartender was a young girl with stainless steel rings pushed through her eyes and ears, and she often wished she could put then through her cheeks somehow. She watched the young man frown at his beer, drink it with disdain and distance. She watched the old woman talk at her husband, who watched the screen, and she watched the fly, which did not buzz. Rather, the fly twitched, as if it was being electrocuted.