The man was drunk. He looked like Janice Joplin. I could hear her, rusty, crusty, warbling out his throat, maybe even caught a glimpse of hand or was it tongue? He had a bristly face, wires of hair poking out, color fluctuating between black grey and vomit. He had purple mirror sunglasses and he was shouting "This is the way we do it in Hollywood!"
The bald woman looked blankly at him, face stretched square like a TV, wrinkled white head strobing images across his Janice Joplin sunglasses. He was throbbing back and forth, bobbing in his interminable cold like a broken pelvis, wheezing rancid giggles at the blank eyes of the bald woman. She was holding a dream in her hand.
This is the way we do it in Hollywood!
There was a car crash on her forehead and the gusts of overdone flames billowed down her flabs of cheek.
Behind her the sky exploded into streetlights and suddenly she remembered that memory she had
of a movie she once saw
where a man kissed a woman
and their hearts exploded into stars.
This is the way we do it in Hollywood the drunk man shouted, validating her emptiness.