I’m squinting into the sun, strumming my guitar, hoping someone will stop and listen.
A blond girl limps past, expression grim, and drops a dollar into my guitar case. There’s an ugly purple bruise on her cheek, crusted blood in her nostrils.
She hesitates at the biker’s bar, throws her shoulders back, and steps inside.
Too bad. Such a lovely girl. Didn’t think she was the type.
As I’m strumming soft chords, practicing a riff, four shots ring out.
She saunters out of the bar, smiling, humming to herself.
After crossing the street, she tosses a smoking revolver into a mailbox.