Musicians and punk power couple Preston and Miranda get ready for a show, going through everything about themselves as they select shirts and footwear and agonize over hair styles, as Preston reflects upon his relationship with the epic bass player of The Dynamite Chicks.

This story will be featured in an upcoming collection of short stories entitled Short Songs, featuring characters from the Rise and Fall of Skye Wright series.

     “I can’t believe Skye asked me why I always wear tight pants.”
     “Why not?”
     Miranda waved her hands around. “Hello! See how wide my hips are? How big my butt is? Any pants I wear are gonna be tight!”
     “You don’t have wide hips, you’ve got curvy hips.”
     Miranda looked at Preston with a pointed wince.
     Preston went to his dresser to look through his band shirts as he tried to process his girlfriend’s wince.
     Throughout his years of dealing with partners, Preston knew it was folly to try and compliment and reassure a woman who was talking about how she thought some part of her body was too big or too small or too whatever. Such attempts usually got an eye roll if not an outright scoff. But he continued to try and reassure them in any case, because he felt that there was the possibility that saying it would eventually sink in, that it that might make a difference later on.
     Turning around, a flying t-shirt hit Preston in the face.
     Preston flung the shirt off of his head to see several other shirts flying around. “What the hell?”
     “I can’t decide which shirt to wear!” said Miranda as she held up a stack of band shirts.
     “That’s because you got five million band shirts,” said Preston as he braced himself for more flying clothes.
     “Yeah, but this is for a Front 242 show. What do you wear to an industrial show?”
     “Wear your Alien Sex Fiend shirt.”
     Miranda looked at him again with her trademark are-you-kidding-me wince. “God no. Too predictable.”
     “You want me to help you pick out a shirt?”
     “Yes!” said Miranda as she flung a pile of shirts which hit him in the chest and fell to the floor.
     Preston sorted through the shirts. “Exploited, Blatz, Bratmobile, Germs… How about the Germs shirt?”
     “Too crusty.”
     Preston half-heartedly looked through Miranda’s reject pile, convinced he would not be able to help Miranda select a proper shirt, that his advice would be derided.
     Not that he resented such things, or was irritated by it. He himself also fretted over band shirts and footwear when trying to choose the proper clothes for a show or an event, even though he did not spend as much time and thought on it as Miranda usually did.
     As Miranda agonized over shirts, Preston wondered if he should wear his Dickies work pants or his black dress slacks. He was seriously considering the slacks since such a show usually meant a more slick fashion upgrade when it came to industrial show crowds, being as plenty of goths and more fashion conscious alternative types would show up to such events, the ones who had pressed clothes and new jackets, along with carefully coiffed hair and a stricter sense of an elegant yet down-with-the-street veneer that was as obvious as it was understated. He also wondered if he should stay true to his working class aesthetic and wear the work pants.
     “Should I wear my Docs?” asked Miranda.
     “Of course! How could you ask such a thing?”
     “Boots or soles?” she asked as she waved around her Doc Marten shoes.
     “Boots! Don’t wear soles to an industrial show.”
     Preston retreated to the bathroom as Miranda rooted around her footwear. He double checked his hair in the mirror. He had been parting it on the left as he had been letting his hair grow out.
     He carefully combed it. Trying to get the part just right as he wondered how he would continue to style it when it got even longer. He was still getting used to long hair, even though his hair was not exactly long at the moment. He had always shaved it or kept it in a buzz cut, for years, before he decided to let it go and allow it to get longer.
     Putting down the brush, he looked at his arms in the mirror which had become much more muscular and sinewy since he started going to Lee’s physical fitness bootcamps. He also realized that they looked the way they did because he was still having trouble putting on weight.
     Turning his arms around, he looked at the old needle and thread tattoos from his earlier days, the faded gray lines that dotted his arms. He looked over the band names, the poorly drawn skulls and demons, and his biggest regret, a very amateur representation of a syringe.
     Back in his drug soaked days, he had consented to let amateur tattoo artists poke away at him with sewing needles wrapped with thread and dipped in ink, the poor person’s tattoo machine. Miranda had, several times, offered to pay for coverup tattoos to blot out the embarrassing artwork. He assured her that he would be able to pay for them himself, once he decided what kind of tattoos he wanted to get for a cover up.
     He knew his reluctance to get new ink was because he regretted many of his old tattoos, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t make the same mistake again. Not just the choices of artwork, but the quality of the work. Not only would he need to think carefully about what he wanted to get, he would also agonize over which artist he wanted to work with, much in the way Miranda was fussing over her wardrobe.
     He could hear her grumbling as he noted a few more items of clothing getting launched over the bed. He marveled at the contrast between himself and Miranda. Even though he had plenty of small and medium tattoos, he didn’t have nearly as many as Miranda who was almost completely covered. He knew she had also gotten the spotty and poorly drawn needle and thread tattoos when she was living in San Francisco squats as a runaway teen, but later, when she had become a high-priced escort, she had professional tattoo artists cover almost all of them up. There was scarcely any skin on her that was not covered with tattoos or the multiple scars she had collected over the days of her youth, scars from cutting herself and from all of the club and bar fights.
     Her tattoos were exquisite, and Preston never failed to marvel at the quality of the work. Sharp lines, incredible shading, and just simply highly detailed work. Preston never tired of looking over her ink, even though it occasionally made her uncomfortable. He would always relent when she let him know one way or the other that it was bothering her.
     He tugged at his shirt, watching how it wavered over his non-existent stomach. He was not completely sure why he was having trouble putting on weight. Surely his dog walking job and their friend Lee’s fitness bootcamps were not helping him pack on a few more pounds. Looking to Miranda, she was built like a fifties pinup with her curvy hips, her round breasts, which he knew were surgically enhanced, and at six feet tall she had a few inches on him as far as height went. Occasionally people would mention their altitudinal contrast.
     People would always glance in their direction when they were out in public. Miranda was more than used to it, but Preston was still getting used to having a tall, artwork and scar covered amazon partner who attracted so much attention. It was different when they were at shows, since they were scene regulars, so most of the clubbers were used to seeing them around, but out in the civilian world it was much different.
     Occasionally they would run into fans of her band, especially since she was, by far, the most recognizable member of The Dynamite Chicks. Random admirers used to show up in the form of punks and heavy metal headbangers, but recently a lot of the fawning fans looked like college students or suburban types, a real sign of their growing popularity.
     He looked into the mirror, checking his carefully combed hair.
     He tousled his hair with his hands, wrecking all of his careful combing, and walked back into the bedroom.
     Miranda was sitting on the bed. She had taken her shirt off, or more likely had torn it off and flung it across the room. She was bent over, looking at something in her lap.
     She was bent so far over that her hair spilled off to her sides. She was muttering as she fiddled with whatever she had in her lap. Preston ran his eyes around the tattoos on her back, the striking artwork that was only interrupted by overworked bra straps and occasional scars that bordered her ink. He was looking at one particular tattoo, a unique design that looked like a metal spine, snaking around various symbols and objects that ran up her right shoulder blade.
     He stopped staring in case she turned around.
     He turned to his dresser. “Fuck it. I’m just gonna wear my Exploited shirt,” said Preston as he brought out his Dickies work pants.
     Miranda sat up and turned around. “You can’t be serious.”
     “Why not?”
     “Wear your Skinny Puppy shirt. Otherwise we’ll clash.”
     “Clash. Come on. We’re just a couple of punks.”
     Miranda stood up and walked right up to him, bumping him in the chest with her breasts. “No. Maybe I am, but you’re definitely not.”
     “What the fuck are you talking about?”
     She narrowed her eyes as she brought her nose right up to his nose. “You’re not just another punk. You’re way more than that.”
     “Mmmm… Care to elaborate?”
     Miranda brought her head back, shaking her voluminous hair out of her face and standing straight with hands on her hips. “No.”
     Preston shrugged as she turned towards the full-length mirror by their stand-up dresser. As he was putting on his black Dickies work pants, his cell phone buzzed.
     He looked at his phone.
     “Skye’s coming with Colleen and Nader.”
     Miranda shot a look at Preston. “Nader? Why the hell is she comin’ to the show?”
     “What?” said Preston as he pocketed his phone. “She’s totes into Front 242.”
     Miranda furrowed her brow and actually let out a low growl.
     “I take it you’re not fond of her.”
     Miranda walked around the bed and picked up her slick black jeans. “I don’t like the way she talks to you,” she said as she proceeded to struggle on her jeans.
     Preston held up his hands. “What’s wrong with the way she talks to me? We just talk about music.”
     Miranda hopped up and down as she kept tugging her pants up, trying to get them around her hips. “Okay, it’s the way she looks at you.”
     Preston tilted his head and raised an eyebrow. “How does she look at me?”
     Miranda stopped hopping up and down and let go of her still unbuttoned pants. “It’s obvious she’s got a crush on you!”
     Preston threw his hands up. “She does not! We just like talking about music.”
     “Psh!” dismissed Miranda as she resumed struggling with the top button of her black jeans.
     “She’s a DJ at KALX. She knows everything about music. You know how much music nerds like to gab with each other.”
     “Psh!” repeated Miranda right before she took in a deep breath to get her pants all the way on.
     “And she’s got a boyfriend. You know, the bass played from Hocking Chunks. The pretty boy!”
     Miranda tossed her head, causing a great wave of black hair to fly across the bed. “That doesn’t mean she can’t have a crush on you.”
     Preston leaned towards Miranda and looked her in the eye. “Okay, who do you have a crush on?”
     Miranda stood straight with wide eyes. “What?”
     “If having a partner doesn’t disqualify having a crush on someone, who’s your crush?”
     “You’re my crush.”
     “I don’t count. We’re already going out.”
     Miranda held up her hands. “Can’t I have a crush on my boyfriend?”
     “It doesn’t count!”
     Miranda leaned down on the bed. “Maybe I have a crush on your friend Skye.”
     “No you don’t. You just wanna fight her again.”
     “Ppppt!” said Miranda and she stood up and took in a deep breath. “I don’t have a crush on these pants. They have a crush on me!” said Miranda as she finally managed to get her jeans buttoned. Letting out a breath, she directed a steely gaze towards Preston. “So who’s your crush?”
     “Oh please, we both know it’s Siouxsie Sioux.”
     “That doesn’t count! Everyone has a crush on her. Straight girls have a crush on her!”
     “Come on, it still counts.”
     “Feh! Betcha you have a crush on Nader!”
     “Oh please!” pleaded Preston as Miranda retreated to the bathroom. Preston sat down on the bed and checked his messages. He looked over texts from Skye and Molly, both of them asking when they would be at the show. He quickly texted Molly to let her know they would be on their way soon. He then looked down at the text from Skye.
     “Miranda’s giving me hell about Nader being there,” texted Preston.
     “What the fuck for?” texted back Skye almost immediately.
     “She thinks Nader has a crush on me.”
     “She’s going out with pretty boy though!” Preston could hear Skye’s indignant voice as he read her text.
     “She has also accused me of having a crush on Nader.”
     “She be one jelly B!”
     Preston let out a long sigh. “I don’t know if I should take her seriously or not.”
     “Yes.”
     “Yes I should take her seriously or I should not take her seriously?”
     “Yes.”
     Preston glanced back at the open bathroom door. She could hear Miranda scraping a brush through her long mane of hair.
     He looked back at his phone and texted Skye again. “Seriously though, I don’t know what to do about her accusations. I cannot tell if she is being serious or if she is just being a dork.”
     There was a long pause. Skye was not texting back. Preston put down his phone and got his socks on. He then went out into the living room to retrieve his wallet and keys, making sure he had them with him so they could get out of the door quickly once they were ready.
     His phone clicked. He looked at a new text from Skye.
     “You know what she has been through. She has had to deal with every kind of gross and smarmy and damaged men all of her life. She is not used to being with a good and trusting man. She is going to have to take some time getting used to that because she has been used and abused and lied to by so many SOBs all of her life. Is she serious or is she just screwing around? No doubt both. She is going to prod and test you and have her little suspicions. You just have to decide if you want to be patient enough to put up with that kind of bullshit while she works it out.”
     His phone buzzed again. “I know your worth it. She still has to find out.”
     Preston read and reread the text.
     He took in a deep breath as his skin stood on edge.
     He closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe again.
     “How did you ever get to be so wise?” he texted Skye.
     “School of hard knocks. You know that! Plus I have good insight on crazy bitches!”
     Miranda came out of the bathroom and stood in front of Preston, her long, wavy hair hanging free, all the way down to her waist. “How’s my hair look?”
     “Beautiful, as always!” said Preston as he set down his phone.
     “No, really, how does it look?” she asked again as she fanned it out with her hands.
     “Like I said.”
     Miranda walked up to him while letting out a frustrated growl. “Tell me for real!”
     Preston stood up as Miranda leaned into him. She bunched up her hair and pressed it against his face.
     “It’s too bad I don’t have a hair fetish,” smiled Preston.
     “I just want an honest opinion.”
     Preston stuck his hands in Miranda’s voluminous mane. “What can I tell you? Your hair always looks good. I don’t know how you fuckin’ do it.” He slid his hands through her hair. “It never tangles. It never snarls. It’s always perfectly wavy. You look like an enchanted goth queen with this hair!”
     Miranda stood straight as Preston slid out from under her hair.
     “I wouldn’t lie to you babe,” said Preston. “Never!”
     “Psh!” dismissed Miranda as she flounced her hair. “I suppose you tell Skye her hair looks good too!”
     “Not once in her entire lifetime has Skye ever asked me how her hair looks.”
     Miranda stood in place, jutting her hip to one side and crossing her arms. “Well? How does her hair look?”
     “You know how it looks. It’s all fucked up. Her hair is all over the place with snarls and dreads. She looks like a demented devil woman most a’ the time.”
     “Psh!” said Miranda as she rooted around her closet once more.
     Preston went into the bathroom to look himself over. He winced at his Exploited shirt. He took it off and decided to relent to Miranda’s wishes, walking back into the bedroom and digging through his generous pile of band shirts, looking for his Skinny Puppy shirt.
     Looking at himself again, he determined that his Skinny Puppy shirt would look better with his black slacks rather than his Dickies work pants.
     Miranda touched up her makeup while he changed his pants.
     Preston eventually ended up sitting in the living room, checking his texts and social media while Miranda put finishing touches on her looks.
     She appeared in the doorway, wearing her brand new black jeans which hugged her body. She was wearing her Chicks on Speed shirt. She had used her spider web clips to tame her hair somewhat.
     “We better leave now or I’m gonna have to change my shirt again,” said Miranda as she put on her leather jacket.
     “Sure,” said Preston as he got out his flight jacket.
     Miranda stood by the door, writing out a text as Preston put on his jacket.
     He stopped and took a long look at her as she concentrated on her phone.
     He felt flush. His skin stood on edge as he held in a shudder.
     He could barely fathom that he had such a partner.
     And he had to wonder how he ever got her.