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Not Mamma Mia

A young art form finds its feet

By Tom Streithorst  

You can tell at a glance she is both damaged and desirable. A black eye mars her pretty face. Blood dribbles from her lips. She’s been drinking. A large scary looking man in a suit strides away. She is distraught. Men and women in masks surround her, but it is you she notices. “Bob?” she calls.

Your name isn’t Bob but you say nothing. She seems convinced she knows you. She grabs your arm and drags you into her tiny mobile home. A woman in a mask is nosing around…

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