Sarah’s thumbnail was one of the few things to survive her rebirth into a minor celebrity. The studio remodeled the rest. Gone were those unkempt black curls that long ago might have nested a pair of voles, that Damien had so loved. Now they were pressed straight with clean cut bangs. Even straighter was her new preference for natural makeup. A fleeting touch of eyeliner, a minutia of mascara, a mouth that was a tinge red or otherwise bare; far away from her old love of thick eyeshadow and purple and black lipstick. Damien’s fleeting memory of how aggressively she used to strum the 6th string was all that remained of this simulacra.

Her current song weaved a gong into a retro-futuristic pop ballad that sounded like Ella Fitzgerald had returned with a synthetic vengeance. She wouldn’t stop moving, squatting to sing over one side of the screaming crowd only to dash back center and smash the gong with a giant mallet. She chased that with a guitar solo, deft fingers dancing over strings, her long thumbnail strumming in place of a pick. She freed notes like a musical Moses, now floating, unbound from fingers, over the heads of this sea. The stage lights shifted, washing Damien in pink light as she looked out, right at him. Their eyes locked, Damien raising his arms not in fanfare but a plea for attention. She spun on her boots and moved to the other side of the stage. Had she seen him?

Back in The Frootloops, she’d been too shy to sing without pressing the mic into her mouth so close she might as well have eaten it. She would just spam the same five power chords, their gigs only fit for basement frat parties and townie dive bars, and it was beautiful. God, things were slow back then. Nights spent drunk with the record player on loop, mornings hungover in class desperately paying little attention, evenings sitting on the hill behind the quad and watching the sunset, Sarah on the blanket beside him, and there was Dave, the drummer, telling jokes and Libby the keyboardist cracking another bottle of wine, both slowly falling in love. Endless time, but somehow, he never found a chance to tell Sarah what they were. Then slowly, time alone with his thoughts became dangerous. While back then, he could spend an afternoon doing nothing, reading, hell, even writing poetry, now, the same music that had once brought purpose only uncorked a sewer in his brain, while Sarah didn’t bother a second glance, and a tall guy to his left moshed too hard, throwing Damien off balance, his sight of her obscured.

He tried to mimic her fingers’ dance, curling his own as if holding an invisible instrument along the fabric of his jeans. His hands had once known a similar feeling, before he and his bass guitar had washed out of the LA underground. He no longer made notes these days, but his movements stayed precise. He still reckoned that made him some sort of musician, in philosophical terms. His instrument was the Multiectomy Machine, an all-purpose Surgeon’s framework. It was one way to make good use of all those synapses he had built for the strings, now tethered to a giant robot with spider-like tendrils bearing scalpels and microtomes.

The faux-encore came with roaring applause, the younger generation jumping in a religious jubilation, but Damien was only interested in seeing out of Sarah’s eyes. He could imagine their faces directed at him instead—bass guitar in one hand, Multiectomy controller in another. It was a too delicate performance for this lot. His fingers could mime the right notes as if it was still his band, but he’d never touch these hearts. Not if they were lucky, that was. The end of the show was like a ketamine comedown. They had walked on the moon, now left stunned. He tried to shoulder to the front, finding the path backstage. The large-belly bouncer honed in on him first. Damien insisted he was an old friend. “The merchandise was over there,” the big guy insisted. “Sarah would want to see me,” he pleaded. “Show’s over pal.”

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