She had a way of belting out a tune. A bad one. At least she was enthusiastic about it. Little changed in the world.
Pretty girls did not have to pay for drinks, and they were given a pass for saying stupid things. She reminded Frank of a few people he has come across over the years. The punks that overdosed on angel dust, falling down and turning blue in front of CBGB's dieing right on Bleeker Street. He shivered at the thought, he had watched a Long Island teenager die just that way, and he had punished the dope pusher severely. Still, she was alive, and did not seem to have any needle tracks, or the 1,000 yard stare.
He raised his glass to her "You seem to be doing just fine without a microphone." and began to sing horribly off key. "Slipping notes, under the deskWhile I was thinking about her dress I was shy, I turned away, before she caught my eye I was shakin' in my shoes whenever she flashed those baby blues"