genetic tip of the hat to her Italian heritage. Now she wondered in a desperate frenzy if she shouldn't have had some kind of rinse. Minerva would think she was an old fart. She felt like an old fart in her plain black jeans and motorcycle boots. Yet trying to squeeze her new self into the old crushed velvet and leather would have been a joke, an exercise in infantilism.
'You look like a successful, independent thirty-one-year-old woman,' she told her reflection. 'You know who you are.'
She fiddled with her belt buckle and slicked her mouth with an unnecessary extra coat of dark lipstick. With a deep breath, she grabbed her suitcase and yanked the door open.
Minerva had arrived while she was having her little moment in the john. Her heart froze and then revved like a Harley. She considered retreating to the bathroom but Minerva spotted her and there was nothing to do but wave and smile sheepishly.
Minerva rushed over and swept Mona up in a warm sandal-wood embrace. The blonde dreadlocks were gone, shaved close to the scalp, and Minerva's tattoos seemed to have multiplied, colonizing her shoulders and the back of her neck. There were tiny lines around her dark eyes and a ring through her lower lip, but the rich scent of her skin and the mischievous curl in the corner of her wide mouth were just the way Mona remembered.
'You dirty bitch,' Minerva cried, holding Mona's face between callused hands. 'You look absolutely edible.' She coiled a silver lock of Mona's hair around her finger. 'I love the Elsa Lanchester thing. It makes you look like a real writer.'
Mona pulled away, laughing. 'You trying to say I look old?'
Minerva pulled her close. 'I'm trying to say I missed you, you silly slit!'
Tears caressed the back of Mona's throat as she hugged Minerva back.
'I missed you, too,' she said.
They held each other for a good minute, content to lean into the embrace and let silent memories wash over them. Then, feeling a little wobbly, Mona let Minerva guide her to a table and order her a double espresso.
As the tide of catch-up chat flowed between them, the story of Daniel, the story of Minerva's latest butch beloved and her subsequent police-escorted departure, Mona became aware of something waiting to be said. Something important and delicate that Minerva wasn't sure if she should keep her mouth shut about. She knew her friend well in spite of ten years gone and sure enough, there came a strange break in the conversation. Mona sipped her second espresso, caffeine glittering in her veins.
'Y'know,' Minerva said finally. 'Not like it's my business, but I saw something really strange the other day and I thought you might like to know about it.'
'Yeah, what's that?' Mona asked over the rim of her tiny cup.
'Well' Minerva toyed with her napkin, folding it into chaotic origami. 'Remember our new bass player, the one I told you about. Well, she lives in the building on East 9th where you used to live. In fact, she lives in the apartment directly underneath the one you lived in. With Victorine.'
The espresso in Mona's stomach gurgled, burning up the remains of her airline lunch. Just the name Victorine was enough to make her feel like eating a bottle of Rolaids.
'So anyway,' Minerva continued, obviously uncomfortable, but unable to stop now. 'I'm over there hanging with Nocturna and fucking with this new song when power in her place just dies. We could see lights on in other buildings outside so we figure a fuse must've blown or something. There's no light in the hallway either, so we grab a flashlight and start knocking on doors, to see if any neighbours have power. There's no one home on her floor, so we go upstairs. In the upstairs hallway, one light is on and one is off. Before I know what's happening, she's knocking on the door to your old apartment.'
Minerva finished her coffee, just to have something to do.
'All the old stickers you put on the door, Siouxie and Sisters of Mercy and those weird little drawings, they were all still there. We could hear music inside so we knew there was power. Someone had to be home, but it took 'em a really long time to answer.'
She paused again and Mona closed her eyes, a thin coil of nausea twisting in her stomach. She didn't want to hear it, but somehow she needed to.
'It was Victorine. She was all sweaty and she looked really nervous. She hasn't changed at all, y'know. She still wears that Cleopatra make-up and black lipstick and teases her shoe-polish hair up into this big old rat's nest, but she looks I don't know. Dirty. Like she never washes all that white make-up off, just adds more. And the apartment, I mean, what I could see of it, was like a museum, a shrine to Diva Demona.'
Mona turned her face away.
'Why are you telling me this?' She could feel the thick knot of a headache tightening in her skull. 'I can't help it if some rejected psycho wants to keep a roadside Elvis Museum version of my past in her bedroom. That part of me is dead and buried. Why should I care what Victorine does with her wretched excuse for a life?'
'It's not that,' Minerva said softly.
'Well what then?' Mona was beginning to feel sorry she came.
'When Victorine answered the door, she' Minerva bit her lip. 'She had some else with her.'
'Great, the little leech found a new host.'
'No,' Minerva said. 'It was you.'
Mona frowned.
'What?'
'Well, not you now .' Minerva's eyes were dark, remembering. 'It was Diva Demona.'
The nausea that had been building in Mona's guts flexed like a body builder and she clenched her teeth, refusing to be sick. This was crazy. Even the thought of someone imitating her, imitating who she used to be, made her feel deeply violated, as if someone had dug up the corpse of a favourite child.
