In the nothing space between songs I tell her, you remind me of somebody that I used to love. She drops my hand with deciduous firmness. ‘They all have bow strings,’ she says, even the drummer.’ Non-traditional is the norm now, I say, it’s the hipster hegemony celebrating snowflakes. She sips her vodka and looks out over the heads. ‘Pink is pink no matter how you shade it.’ The band plays on in dissonant symmetry. I reach to retake her hand and she pulls away. ‘I don’t want to be the same anymore,’ she says, ‘it’s not enough.’

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