Green room inventory:
23 cigarette butts. 36 beer cans, withered and crushed.
3 Chips Ahoy packs, chunky. 1 unfinished Brass Monkey.
1 washed-up rock god, spilling his lunch.
And 1 teenage girl, face down in a river of blood.
Three hours earlier ...
"One more, bro!"
I place my nose squarely over the line and enter.
An inhale evacuates my sinus pressure.
Rise and breath. Rinse and repeat.
Quickly release. Tight fit in vintage-ripped jeans.
I want to show them a time, explosive design.
We, too, were children of music, its fuses corroding our minds.
She came with ... I don't know.
She is there, though. Looking on from the corner.
Looking on like a scarecrow. I quickly notice her hair's flow.
She dyes it blue, the gentle, cerulean sort
that seemed to express a moodiness or youthful extort.
I invite her over. Another beer can hits the wall, empty,
"We're all empty," she says, trying to sound deep, but instead
she's acting her age. Sixteen by the looks. Nineteen by the hopes.
She grabs a cookie. Crosses her legs. Bright sheen on her hose.
I smile back. My daughter's probably 15 now.
(Don't think about your daughter.)
What should I call her? "Babe" is dated. "Sexy" is trite.
"Honey" makes me sound like her father.
(Don't think about your daughter.)
Two hours later ...
Katherine says she's a senior at West High. Her friends call her Katie.
She's legal to smoke and ... thinks menthols are tasty.
She licks her lips. Grabs another cookie.
We're alone now, across the hall.
The rock star gets his own green room, with locks and all.
She's behind me. Runs her 18-year-old fingers through my chest hair.
Breasts bare. More action and less stare.
She flings herself on the couch. I kiss her lips, soft and humid
and the exact same shade of pink my daughter uses.
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