Anna zigzagged her way to the Mission, down 17th Street onto Church Street onto 15th Street all the way to the Mission. She wore her New York black for the occasion, black tights, black combat boots, a black leather bomber jacket over a loose black turtleneck sweater pilling dark gray, all framed by her lily white skin, her dark eyes with black eyeshadow underneath Whoville black hair that framed her face to a narrow point.
Side-stepping the construction barriers at Mission and 13th she made a flamboyant right turn into Moraque where her people would be waiting. Well, give them a grand entrance, she thought to herself. Let them see a lady with style! She entered the bar lounge and squeezed her butt cheeks and turned her shoulders neck-ward to make her way past crowds of martini-sipping, pot-smoking hipsters. She smoothed her way to the back of the dark lounge festooned in red, gold, green, and blue papier-mache lighting and ornate copies of brazen Renaissance nudes. At the back her crowd cheered "Anna!" when she arrived -- Mara, smoking a joint, a falsh eyelash halfway down her cheek; Toby, green Converse tennis shoes, white jeans, and a blue coffee-stained ZZ Top tee; balding Jaybo, 25 years old with hair half way down his back; and Brookie, bright purple hair -- no, really purple -- and albino white make-up, a mismatched plaid skirt and blouse with navy blue tights underneath.
"Anna, voici ths stage!" cried Toby. "Your turn, baby cakes! Get on up there."
With a mock bow Anna turned her cheek the other way and went to the stage. Guitar out, all set to go, her back to the crowd, she turned her head left, chin on her shoulder, started her strumming, dove into her song. "Tell it to the judge, tell your story …"
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