by Kate Bolin

She's got silver eyeshadow on again. Thick, shiny, like spilled aluminum paint, flowing over her eyes. She's wearing blue jeans and engineer boots, and despite the noise, despite the crowds, you can still hear her walk through the rave.

Or maybe you think you can.

She's an archetype, she's the angel you see before you fall, and you whisper her name under your breath. She turns -- there's no way she could have heard you -- and she smiles, and she whispers your name, just as low and just as needy.

You call her "Faith," and she...

She said "Cordelia."