A night on the town.

It was pitch black outside by the time Henry was ready to leave. He had finished assembling himself. Tonight, he was wearing a knee-length wool skirt, light orange with off-white polka-dots all over it. He wore a modest off-white blouse, under which he'd donned his bra, a Wonderbra that had enough air and liquid inside it to create a substantial chest from nothing. Since the nights had become cooler, he decided to wear off-white tights over his freshly-shaved legs. Instead of a jacket, he'd gathered an orange shawl around his shoulders to keep himself warm. He wore pearl posts in his ears and a pearl necklace around his neck, which matched the off-white of the shirt and polka-dots. To top it all off, he put on his new brown leather boots with the one-inch block heel. As always, he had pinned his light brunette wig securely into place. Wouldn't want to lose that, after all.

Picking up his brown purse, he looked out the peephole of his door to make sure no one was around. He opened the door and stepped out.

He was no longer Henry. In fact, her name was Dorothy.

Dorothy began the descent down the grungy stairs and after eleven flights, walked out onto the street. She was greeted by a harsh rush of cold air that make her hair blow and her shawl whip in the wind. Dorothy turned and walked down the street. It was barely a block to The Bar, but by the time she got there, she was frozen stiff. She was immediately greeted by the loud shrieking of a microphone. She whipped her head over towards the front of the bar – there wasn't much of a stage, just a space – and saw a young boy in a cowboy hat sitting down in a chair with a guitar. She walked over to an empty seat at the bar and sat down. The bartender recognized her. "Good evening, Miss Dorothy," he said. "I supposed you'll be having the usual cosmopolitan tonight?" Dorothy replied, and the bartender started mixing her drink. The bartender had no idea who Dorothy was – for all he knew, she was the nice lady he saw a few nights a week. And he never saw her during the day.

Before the bartender finished making the drink, the young boy on the stage started talking. "Excuse me, everyone – I'm Leroy Pickler, new in town, just got off the Greyhound bus yesterday, straight up from Paintlick, Kentucky. I'm tryin' to make my way best I can as a country singer, so if you'll be obliged to drop any tips right here in this bucket, I'd be real thankful." Leroy held up a dirty old paintbucket and placed it at his feet. When he looked up, he met eyes with Dorothy. He gave her a strange look before breaking eye contact and looking down at his guitar. "This song here's for my mama," he said. "I just know someday I'm gonna make her so proud."

Leroy began his song. It was a twangy country song, the kind like Dorothy's own mother used to listen to. Dorothy hated anything that reminded her of her mother. After the first song was over and he began the second one, Dorothy couldn't take it. She got up, threw a five dollar bill on the table and left her bright pink cosmopolitan sitting there, unfinished.