Rock, Roll, et al.

She looks for the obit, can't find. Over and over, looks. Nothing. Nothing except something touching her shoulder.
 

Follow me.

Corridors, doors, along and along, no time to notice that this last is the stage door — she was so suddenly there in the blare and glare.

You can sit here if you're quiet. She was. The next night too, and so on.

You can dance if you don't get in the way. She wasn't. Anything but in the way right to the Pyramid Club. Go4, YMG, OMD, XTC, Human Sexual Response, she can.

Byline: gossip, so the usual. Bars, huge stars, passes, releases, buses, backstage and blow. Mostly the music — she can dance. Sex, of course, don't be dim.

A compromised sort of salvation, but she liked it. Called her Pokey, to disguise her true role as goddess-object. Eventually tired of his toe licking, she walked her combat boots out of there.

Years.



Christmas card written on Thursday: I wanted to write you while I still could — news from the doctor isn't good. The death Friday. Call from the daughter, Sunday: was so very fond of you.

Wondering.  But what?

Daughter said death had nothing to do with his illness. News not that bad. All she would say.

No obit.

Something touching her shoulder — was it Friday night?

She takes their picture to the shrine in the next room.

Only rock and roll, reminds herself now. She liked it. So? It wasn't enough.