Page 66 of Fang Fatale

I admit I once tried to become a jazz pianist.

I lasted three lessons.

The instructor quit to join a doomsday cult.

She doesn't laugh.

She just grins, as though she's discovered an entirely new color.

"You always sound like you're trying to sell me on your weirdness," she says, "but I think you're just normal and deeply disappointed about it."

It's so painfully accurate I nearly drop my mug.

"Not normal," I say.

"Never normal."

"Sure."

She gestures vaguely toward me.

"That's why you tuck your shirt in at the laundromat."

A beat.

"Very normal behavior."

It's an ancient defense, and I smile because she's right and I have absolutely nothing to do with it.

"When you live long enough," I say, "the only thing that still matters is controlling your own narrative. That's why vampires always show up so well dressed."

I shrug.

"It's the only dignity we've got left."

"You want dignity?"

She wrinkles her nose.

"I'll make you a crown out of Ramen noodles and dental floss."

"I'm allergic."

I pause thoughtfully.

"And, full disclosure..."

"I floss with those disgusting little green picks."

She snorts.

Then the smile fades, giving way to something quieter.

Not sadness.

Relief.

As though she's finally too tired to keep performing.