She saw him from a distance. He, like her, was swaying listlessly to the band onstage, hair fluffed high, hands in the pockets of his vintage leather jacket. He probably got it at Salvation Army. She nurtured a small feeling of superiority. She got all of her vintage clothing at a privately-owned thrift store that was only open two hours a week. No one knew about it. It was her special, dark place, and she couldn't wait for it to sell out so she could tell everyone she went there before it was cool.

As she watched, he adjusted his shades — necessary in the harsh indoor light of the Two Gallants concert. She couldn't see his eyes, and suddenly, she desperately wanted to. Would they be gray like the buildings in Williamsburg, or brown like the dirty orphans that lived on her stoop? She snapped her gaze down to his skinny jeans, and stared at his Keds. They were the same color as hers: white.

Self-consciously she wondered if her retro 1970s dress was ironic enough. It was garish, but not garish enough. Maybe someone thought she bought this dress sincerely.
Well, there was only one thing to do: look as uninterested as possible. She sucked at her Parliament Light, wondering if she'd get a chance to snort the coke she'd snuck in.

"Hey, could I bum a cigarette?"

Like a yuppie soccer mom looking at the window display of Pottery Barn, he was at her elbow, peering at through his shades, her aviators, and the long greasy bangs that hung down her face. She pretended not to hear him, blowing out a cloud of smoke.

"Hey, Carly Simon. Could I bum a cigarette?"

Carly Simon? So he was into seething out-of-control party girls. Didn't he realize that she didn't care about Carly Simon, out of control party girls, or anything else that he was saying? She raked her grimy fingers through her bangs, pulling them back over her eyes, and pulled on her Parliament Light.

"Why should I? Aren't cigarettes just a social construct?"

He paused, taking a swig of his Pabst Blue Ribbon. Then he leaned close to her and whispered, "I want you. Even if your dress is too sincere."

He took off his shades, and she saw that his eyes were blue. Blue like the veins that stood out from her pale white arms, blue like the veins that probably ran down his skinny, soft, white stomach.

She grabbed his oversized belt buckle, pulling his skinny hips close. The PBR in his hand spilled onto the people around them, but concerts were exhibitionist manifestations of the Panopticon, anyway. She slid her hands under his flannel shirt, running her hands over the wifebeater he was wearing underneath.

Before she could deconstruct the rest of his outfit, he slipped his hand down her teal leggings and into her Hello Kitty panties. She tried to appear as apathetic as possible as she dug her fingernails into his pale, slouching back. This was almost as good as the time she read Proust for the first time...but not as good as the time she read James Joyce's Ulysses for the first time. The only time she'd had sex that good was when the graffiti artist on the subway and she had copulated on the 6 train as a form of social commentary.

Now he was muttering band names into her hair, caressing her hair with the same attention he'd show a record player.

"Do you want to fuck on my used mattress in a studio loft in Williamsburg?" she whispered.

"No."

"Oh." She awkwardly turned to the side, and he slid his hand out of her underwear. "Whatever."