Tiny Cities Made of Ashes

“Isn’t Luke…” Vicki started.

“What?” I said.

“Nothing, nothing…” she said innocently. We made our way in through the front entrance. In daylight, the place was practically an obscurity, hidden away. But if you knew about it, and you showed up at night, you were in for a suprise. It was an old theatre, draped in red velvet interiors and it had a strange old book kind of smell that no amount of Febreeze could ever permeate.

“Hey Luke,” I waved to the guy at the counter. He looked up from a copy of Mojo magazine and grinned.

“Mara, hey, I knew you’d come out sooner or later,” he said as he brushed a few strands of bedhead out of his face and adjusted his horn rimmed glasses, “Cool Bahaus shirt.”

“Oh, thanks,” I smiled, “I brought you your favorite.”

“El Burro?” His eyes lightened up.

“Only the best for my favorite Bowiephile,” I said, handing him a bag.

“Hey,” he said to both of us, “Tickets on the house tonight.”

Vicki leaned in as we got our seats.

“He’s so perfect for you.”

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