She appeared as if through a tear in the fabric of time and space, plonked her gorgeous ass on the front bench, reaching distance from the stage, and took it all in.
The concert. The opening act. The nods and hellos.
She was unshakable in how much she did not fit in.
Everyone else, pretty much, was a silver-hair. A gramma or granpa.
Their handclaps were light and ineffectual and full of self-preservation. You could hear the lack of strength in their bones and ligaments and tendons. When they applauded after each song it sounded like a stack of dried out, fifteen-year-old rubber bands falling down a wooden staircase.
It didn't make you want to do better, up there on the tiny stage in the corner.
It made you want to cut a swathe through the field of them with your hollowed-out acoustical guitar.
Her eyes sparkled and shone rainbows of greens and blues in great arcs from wall to wall.


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