Proto followed her down into a dim-lit hallway, passing a couple doors. “Aaannd, here we are,” she declared, opening the third door and strolling in.

  Beyond the doorway was a large, semi-finished concrete chamber that might’ve once been used for food storage. It certainly wasn’t anymore.

  Band posters covered the walls. Among them was a big flat-screen T.V. with a bigger pair of speakers beside it. In front of it was an old Xbox, and nearby was an even older boombox.

  Against one wall was a raised platform with hatches along the side. It probably was concealing some machinery, but it looked like a stage. Indeed, it even had a microphone stand atop it, though there was no microphone.

  A lone guitar lay propped against the wall beside the stage.

  “Sheesh. Is all this from your trunk stash too?” marveled Proto.

  “Some!” she nodded. “And . . . some from local cottages no longer used for cottaging.”

  “She’s a looter.” He shook his head grimly.

  “They call us bad girls for a reason,” she shrugged. “Buyer beware! You bought your goods as-is, and she’s not good! Me, I don’t buy, I just make things mine.”

  “Also,” he smiled, “you would end up finding the one diner that randomly has a concert stage in the basement, wouldn’t you?”

  “Hey, I give you credit for helping me find this place,” she replied. “Usually it’s me helping you find things. ‘Lower! No, higher! No, Moo, much too low.’”

  Proto laughed quietly, as he surveyed Black’s basement. It felt like he was coming home. This was odd, as he’d only been to this diner once, and never the basement. But it reminded him of Black’s old room and, more importantly, Black herself.

  She’d been his first girlfriend of any real significance. She was his first in all sorts of ways. Indeed, of all the girls he’d spent much time with recently, she was the first he’d met, by far.

  Funny—he’d spent months at Somnus’ Palace roving amid dreams, hoping to make a dream of his life. But the place where he’d finally succeed in doing so was far from the dream realm, right back where he’d started, with Karen Black.

  “Keep your past close,” he murmured with a wistful smile.

  “What?” she frowned.

  Proto shook away the woo woos. “Nothing. But that Xbox over there.” He pointed near the T.V. “That’s . . . the Xbox, isn’t it? The one you mentioned? You kept that in your trunk for years too?”

  Black eyed him sidelong. “I mean . . . you can’t give back a gift, right? And you can’t throw it away, right?” She frowned at his chortling. “Look, Moo, now you got something to do when you’re over! During the three days a month when there’s nothing else to do.”

  As he chortled in disbelief, she suppressed a smile. “Meanwhile, I’ll listen to music or something. That’s me, either listening to music or making it. One way or another!”

  “Speaking of which”—Proto looked at her guitar, then the stage, then her—“now’s as good a time as any right?”

  “Oh, F that,” murmured Black, going a bit pink. “Yes, yes it is.” She looked down at her whisky, drank the remaining two ounces, and delicately set it on the floor.

  Then, she walked slowly toward her guitar. Lifting it, she plucked a few notes, strummed a few chords, and looked at Proto. “F this.”

  “Sounds in tune to me,” he observed.

  “Yes! Thank you, Moo! It’s in tune!” she exclaimed.

  “Just helping where I can!” he cheerfully replied.

  “Yep! Helpful like a lighter at the gas tank, that’s Moo!”

  Black plucked a few more notes, her expression going faraway. She plucked a few more, then took a deep breath. “Well, better do this right.” She sounded faraway too. He barely heard her.

  She climbed atop the stage behind the microphone stand with no microphone.

  “Evening everyone,” she mumbled, in the way that nervous young rockers always mumble. “That means you, Moo.”

  “First song’s called The Ticket.”

  Before Proto could think very hard about that title, she’d begun strumming. And at that point, his focus shifted entirely to her, and the harmony that glossed the feelings on her face, and the melody that danced about her harmony, and the words that gave her melody shape:

  Deep in the shade, there’s a rose without thorns.

  Not red, not prickly, but she tries to be.

  Her blossom’s little, so she tries to be

  Larger than life. She never grows to be

  A real rose. But she’s found a way to make it.

  Fake it! That’s the ticket.

  Make it! Take the ticket.

  I can’t take it! Take the ticket.

  Break it! That’s the ticket.

  And when You wake, I’ll still be fake.

  But not the music that we make.

  Deep in the heart, there’s a tune without words.

  A little black and blue, a little rue,

  And You, and all that grew from me and Moo;

  But no words. I can only sing what’s true,

  And I’m not. In the end, you can’t mistake it.

  Fake it! That’s the ticket.

  Make it! Take the ticket.

  I can’t take it! Take the ticket.

  Break it! That’s the ticket.

  And when You wake, I’ll still be fake.

  But not the music that we make.

  No, not our music, me and You.

  Maybe that’s the ticket:

  Trust the heart, don’t trick it.

  I’m not red, and I have no thorns to prick it;

  But what I can’t do, I can leave to You.

  Words fail me, true, but maybe won’t fail two.

  Deep in the shade, what blooms here? Is it You?

  Looking at him, as she strummed a few last notes, her hazel gaze was wide. “Is it You?” she repeated, half-singing.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it, blinking. He wasn’t sure if that’d been part of the song.

  A moment passed in silence.

  “Moo, you’re smiling dumbly at me again.” Black’s voice quavered. “That’s at least the third time today!”

  Proto climbed atop the stage and clasped her hands, meeting her gaze. Her hazel eyes blinked moistly up at him.

  Then, he kissed her.

  After one more blink, her arms closed around his bare back, and her eyes slipped shut. So did his. Then, everything was what they felt between them.

  Funny. They’d met each other after high school: her, worldly as could be, and racing on toward grown-up life; and him, right there beside her, going double or nothing on her dirty jokes, her drinks, and her lascivious basement antics.

  Ten years had passed. They’d seen the world. Yet now, like two handholding kids at Senior Prom—giddy at the world in one another’s eyes, where lights above them sparkled like the stars—they kissed themselves into a world beyond them.

  A world behind them and ahead of them—the shining moment seemed to stretch ten years, back through a starry void toward something long lost, to bring it back into their mutual future.

  They had no words for what that future held. And yet it lay upon their lips; that is, upon each other’s lips. It spread from there and showed the way, like starlight when the clouds clear—the way to a future where they’d keep their past close.

  They withdrew at the same time, but neither released the other’s hands. Or the other’s gaze. Indeed, she was all red and smiley, in a most un-Black-like manner.

  “You’re smiling dumbly at me again,” noted Proto.

  She swatted his head. “Best get used to it. It’s been pent up for ten years! And if you think I’m too cool for it, well, I’m almost thirty! My coolness is low and running lower!”

  “The only value in this valueless world is what you share with someone when you’re uncool,” replied Proto.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  “Yes!” she cried, hugging him. “You were right, and I was wrong. Round three goes to Proto.”

  She sniffed and withdrew a moment later. “Anyhow, I hope you enjoy all the value I’ll be sharing with you. Cause I’ve got a lot more.” She pointed at a teardrop trickling down her cheek. “All this value!”

  “Cool with me,” he shrugged.

  “No, it’s not cool! You weren’t listening, Proto!” she exclaimed.

  Laughing helplessly, he hugged her again.

  “Yep. Cold Bitch Black, not even cool anymore,” she mumbled.

  “Downright warmhearted!” observed Proto.

  “Yep! Cold Bitch is gone. Now she’s Bare-Her-Whole-Heart Black,” she lamented. “No more irony about being ironic. They’re gonna ban me from the Irony Club! Today, it’s tearful sobs into welcoming shoulders. Tomorrow, I’ll be drinking mimosas with ‘the girls’ and debating who was hotter, Hugh Grant or Colin Firth. I’m gonna be thirty!”

  “Hey, I’d never guess it,” observed Proto.

  “They told me this would happen!” she wailed.

  He patted her arm, and she sniffed. “Okay. I’m back,” she said.

  “Black is back?” he asked.

  She frowned. “Don’t say that. You sound like a bad rap album.”

  “Yep, there she is!” affirmed Proto. “Anyway, before Bare-Her-Whole-Heart Black is totally gone, I should thank her for that performance.”

  “Always keep my promises,” she shrugged. “Speaking of which, I believe someone owes someone a tip.”

  Proto blanked for a few seconds before it came to him: “You can leave a tip, but I’m not accepting cash or credit,” Black went on. “So you’ll have to get creative.” Her hazel eyes glimmered in the neon light.

  His lips curved up. “Still not accepting cash or credit, I take it?”

  “No, Moo, the terms haven’t changed,” she replied patiently. “And remember, you owe me interest! That means you need to repay me at least a few times at this point. Four times, maybe? Ten?”

  “Um, how do we do that math?” he asked.

  “Oh?” Her brow arched. “The statistician asks the bartender? The male asks the female? Hmph! The math couldn’t be easier. The answer is, ‘Go till I say stop.’”

  Proto blinked and opened his mouth, but she was faster.

  “Sheesh, Moo. You leave me, you don’t talk to me for eight years, you show up one night all flirty-flirty, you do one date, you disappear on me for more years. And what do I do when I see you again? I tell you to ‘go till I say stop,’” she lamented. “I’m so late-stage Gen X!”

  “And I wouldn’t have you any other way,” he replied.

  “Sheesh, that’s so cheesy. Why am I crying? Stop crying!” she chided herself.

  “Do people start saying sheesh when they’re almost thirty?” he asked.

  “Sheesh, Proto!” she exclaimed. “Low blow! Below the belt! The belt of my high-waisted mom pants!”

  “Question,” he said. “Hugh Grant or Colin Firth?”

  She strained. “Ugh . . . must resist . . . Hugh Grant, obviously.”

  “Oh?” he said.

  “Ugh! Look what you’ve done to me,” she cried. “I’m randomly weepy!”

  “How about some music?” he suggested.

  “Okay, but if you turn on the Pride and Prejudice soundtrack, we’re through,” she warned him.

  Proto laughed quietly. “Don’t think I put any of that on here.” He took out the mixtape he’d made her, which she’d handed him earlier, and inserted it in the boombox.

  “Speaking of which,” she said, “I was a little confused why you’d labeled my mixtape with two names in two colors. I thought it was some sort of joke about black-haired Karen becoming red-haired Black.”

  “When I realized what’d happened—that you’d started making it all those years ago—gotta say, I sure sprang a leak!” she recalled. “Hrm. Sorry, that sounded much more romantic in my head.”

  “Eh, give it time, you’re not quite thirty yet,” he shrugged.

  “Stop making that joke! It’s not a source of humor!” she chastised. “When Roger Daltrey said he hoped he’d die before he got old, he meant thirty!”

  Meanwhile, Proto was staring at the boombox and pondering what to play. Funny—he recalled exactly what songs were on the tape, even the ones he’d added ten years ago. Keep your past close, huh?

  The first song was Time Is Running Out, by Muse—a nice tune, but it felt a little too on-the-nose for a couple of long-separated twenty-nine year olds at the end of the world.

  As for the second song—Supermassive Black Hole—its title was even funnier now that Karen wasn’t Karen anymore. But . . . probably not the time.

  Briefly, he’d considered putting Longing for the Past on the mixtape, but he’d decided that would be a bridge too far. Red might appreciate that, but Black would probably hear five seconds of it, then eject the tape and dropkick him out of the room.

  Welp, Lady Luck, I leave this to you. He fast-forwarded for a while and hit Play.

  The boombox broke into music. It started about fifteen seconds into Total Eclipse of the Heart, the last song he’d put on the album. “Turn around . . . ” the boombox sang.

  “Gee, this’ll make me less randomly weepy. Thanks, Moo,” mused Black.

  “No sweat,” said Moo.

  “No sweat, just tears!” she agreed.

  “Speaking of sweat and tears,” he said, “you plan to make this place the next Black’s Rock?”

  “That was a lame transition, Moo,” she observed. “Even for you.”

  “I like my transitions like I like my girlfriends.” He doubled-gunned her. “Lame.”

  She swatted his head. “Anyway,” she smiled, “yes, I’ll be making this place mine. But no, it won’t be Black’s Rock. Black’s Rock was Black’s Rock. This is something else.”

  “Black’s Diner?” he proposed.

  “Good idea,” she said. “I mean, it must be, given that there are at least a thousand Black’s Diners out there.”

  “And Karen Black, in contrast, is one of a kind?” he said.

  “Hey, you said it, not me,” she shrugged.

  “How about . . . Black’s Back? Black Out Back?” he suggested.

  “I told you not to say that first one! It sounds like the R&B solo debut of a former 90s boy band singer, after shaving his head and getting a tattoo,” she said. “The second one sounds like an Australian steakhouse. Or a porno. Or possibly both.”

  “Black Attack?” he offered.

  “Okay, Proto, you’re done.” She didn’t quite suppress her smile. “Nah. I was thinking Seven Shades of Black. Or just Seven Shades, for short.”

  “That’s . . . ” began Proto, glancing down at her rainbow dress, then back up at her. “Yeah. Yeah, I really like Seven Shades.”

  “Right?” she agreed. “The ‘of Black’ part can be in really small writing. Or it can be Seven Shades (of Black), in parentheses, the way they used to do with clever song titles.”

  “I see you’ve thought this through.” His eyes fell to Black’s rainbow dress again, flowing in psychedelic paisley down her lithe form, and his lips curved up. “Your creative side sure is leaking out today.”

  She nodded agreeably. “Pouring out, yep! I’m like a cask, and you’ve tapped the bunghole.”

  “And . . . she’s back,” mused Proto. “Excuse me, she’s Black.”

  “Stop making me feel like a former 90s boy band singer! I’ve done nothing to deserve this!” she complained.

  “Yeah, whatever you are, it’s from sometime between 1967 and 1972.” He gestured at her rainbow dress.

  “Keep that up, and I’m gonna take this off and give it back!” she threatened.

  “You can’t give back a gift,” he protested. “It’s against the rules, you said it yourself!”

  “I’ll give back all the gifts!” she exclaimed. “Number one, the dress! Number two, the ticket! Number three . . . hm. Not sure how I’d give back that one. I think we left it in my aunt’s basement.”

  “Maybe try to take it again, and then you can give it back?” suggested Proto.

  Black fanned her face. “My! Who are you and what have you done with Moo? And could you please do more of it?”

  “I mean, I’ve had my shirt off for like fifteen minutes now,” he noted.

  “And I am so ready to have ribs for supper!” She ran a hand over his torso.

  “Why does everyone feel the need . . . ?” grumbled Proto.

  Black looked down at her hand on his bare chest, then up at him. “Everyone?” she sweetly repeated. “Explain.”

  “Um.” Our quick-witted hero, alas, failed to come up with anything witty quickly.

  “It’s okay, Moo,” she assured him. “I’ve spent the last fifteen years at concerts where half the girls are fantasizing about joining some barechested man on stage and making love on the spot, myself included. And, hey, for once, it looks like I’m the lucky girl!” She gestured at the stage. “So?”

  Proto eyed the stage, his lips quirking up. “Not worried about Old Lady Diner Owner coming down here?”

  “Worried? We’re just making music, Proto,” she said. “You drum, I sing! You know how well I sing!”

  “Oh, I remember it well,” he agreed.

  “From ten minutes ago? Or ten years ago?” she asked.

  “From sometime in some basement or another,” he answered.

  Meanwhile, Total Eclipse of the Heart trailed away sadly, like a fond memory of something lost forever—something that once had been lively and real, and had seemed to be part of an eternal present, but now had departed into the past’s black oblivion.

  Proto almost sighed as it stopped, leaving silence. Welp, nice job with that music, Lady Luck.

  The song stopped, but the mixtape did not. Instead, a few guitar notes twanged from the boombox, followed by some groovy chords. It sounded like late-60s psychedelic rock.

  “What’s this?” muttered Proto, frowning. “Did I add an extra song by accident? How would I add a song to a cassette by accident . . . ?”

  “Tubular,” sang a voice from the boombox.

  Proto’s eyes blinked wide. It was her voice. She added to my mixtape . . . ?

  He turned around to look at Black—and found that she was holding her rainbow dress in her hands.

  “No worries, I’m cool with accidents,” she shrugged. “Actually, not cool. Tubular. Let’s go be tubular and make some accidents together.” She thumbed toward the stage.

  He opened his mouth but couldn’t quite find any words.

  “Yeessss. That is what I meant, Moo.” Black smiled with sweet patience. “We’re goin’ in hot! Shields down, thrusters engaged! Windows down, rain streaming in! I’ll have my meat pink and raw! Unsheathe that sword! I’ve got a Boston Pie, and one thing’s missing! I’m almost thirty, you know!”

  Proto blinked and shook his head. “What a Saturn Return! Is it going to be like this every day? I hope so.”

  Black waved dismissively. “Worry about today today, tomorrow tomorrow, and nine months from now whenever I strangely stop drinking whisky. And start buying clothes in size volumptuous,” she said. “Need I keep going? Or do you get the thrust of it? Cause I’m sure waiting for the thrust of something!”

  “Sure, keep going,” replied Proto. “It’s music to my ears.”

  “Shut up and listen to my music and make music with me!” chided Black.

  Proto reached up and zipped his lips.

  Black reached down and unzipped—well, something.

  “Tubular,” came her voice from the boombox.

  Turning, she strolled toward the stage, swaying her hips ostentatiously. She held her dress high and drapingly between two fingers, beckoning him like a rainbow over a pot of gold.

  And, sure enough, he followed.

  “Tubular,” sang the boombox. And the music of two lovers commenced.

  We had three rainbow weeks that lasted eight years.

  I couldn’t tell you what I wore last night.

  But that night? I still smell your run and long hair.

  I feel that gap I never knew I had

  Being filled. But you were too good. I was too cool.

  Our three-week rainbow faded into Black.

  Bring it back! Being uncool’s always cooler.

  Bring it back! The past becomes the future.

  Tubular!

  We had a rainbow week that lasted two years.

  I couldn’t say what songs played yesterday,

  But that day? I still hear your voice’s music

  In every cry and laugh; in every twang of

  My old guitar, as I think back on how

  Our one-week rainbow faded into Black.

  Bring it back! Being uncool’s always cooler.

  Bring it back! The past becomes the future.

  Tubular!

  The sky fell on our rainbow world. It happens!

  Sometimes, the record slips to another groove.

  What can you do but get up and groove with it?

  Things got a little wack? Well, so can you!

  Heaven fell, but at the rainbow’s end was Moo!

  We’re back, and everything is tubular.

  Bring it back! Being uncool’s always cooler.

  Bring it back! The past becomes the future.

  Tubular!