She hurried up the stairs quickly, hoping against hope to leave the argument of fake Methos and his message of peace and love behind at the bar. But of course he wouldn't let it go.

"You've been awfully quiet," he announced once they were out on the street.

"Oh goody! You've noticed. And you've been rather verbal about your opinion for once," she remarked dryly, continuing to walk as she spoke.

Unfortunately he would not be shaken off quite so easily. He was keeping up with her rather effortlessly.

"What?!" she threw him an irritated sideways glance and stopped walking.

He stopped as well. He was like a tick. She just couldn't seem to shake him off. And what was worse he didn't even have to open his mouth to get an answer out of her. Looking at her was enough these days. She was scandalised. How the hell had he managed to gain access to her most private thoughts just by looking at her?

Liz glared at him. "Oh, just shut up already!" she hissed at him despite the fact that he hadn't actually said anything. "I agree with you. Alright? You know, sometimes I feel quite a remarkably intense dislike towards you."

Upon her admission she could see a triumphant sparkle in his eyes and it irritated her to no end, but not quite as irritated as she was by his next words. "Oh, really? I'm hurt...," he said mockingly. Methos pretended to ponder her words for a second. "Actually, come to think of it, I'm not hurt. Do you know why? Your mouth says 'dislike' now, but you were whistling a different tune only yesterday."

"What? Loathing?" she supplied.

He actually laughed at that, his eyes twinkling mirthfully. "No, starts with the letter 'l' too."

"Really? I was thinking more along the lines of 'c', 'd' or 'r'. Like contempt, detestation, disgust or repugnance."

"Neat. I wasn't aware you had the Thesaurus memorised," he waited for her to show a favourable reaction to his comment, just the tiniest laugh, the slightest upward curve of the corners of her mouth, but nothing happened. He sighed. "Okay, so care to enlighten me, why the sudden hate?" he asked calmly.

She pondered his question for a moment. Come to think of it, it wasn't so much his inquisitiveness that was rubbing her the wrong way. It just irritated her to no end that she was no longer able to have secrets from him anymore. Any attempt of deceiving him was useless nowadays. Mostly he saw right through her, just like she in turn saw right through him. She would have to be honest with him most of the time now. How dreadful! It was probably because he knew nearly all her tricks. Just like she knew his. Honesty made her vulnerable. Vulnerability was an uncharted territory for her. "Alright. I don't really hate you," she finally admitted dejectedly.

"Good, 'cause that makes conversation with you so much easier," he retorted.

She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Why do you always have to be that irritating?"

"Only when you're too pig-headed to admit that you agree with me. Why is it that hard anyway?"

Liz glared at him. "Because you're not supposed to see right through me!"

"Well, you're not supposed to see right through me either, yet again you don't see me complaining," he tried to reason with her.

"That's because you're more fatalistic than I am."

He let out a dry chuckle at her words. "Why is it that it gives you so much trouble opening up a little?" he asked, his voice now devoid of any teasing undertones.

"Funny you of all people should ask me that," she said ironically. "You're not exactly the poster boy for openness and straightforwardness yourself."

"We're not talking about me now, we're talking about you," he told her sternly, trying to get the conversation back on track.

She looked at him for a while, trying to suppress the urge to make this about him once more. Circular conversations were tiresome and unproductive. She wanted this conversation to be over. It was uncomfortable. Honesty in general was rather uncomfortable. She finally replied. Her facial expression was speaking volumes about her distaste and annoyance with their topic of conversation. "Because it makes me vulnerable, alright? I'm not used to that. I don't like being vulnerable."

"Why?" he asked. He could sense he was close to finding out something important about her so he kept digging.

"Why?" she repeated incredulously, actually taking a step closer. "You need to ask why? Really? With all that perceptiveness buzzing around in that clever head of yours? Honestly, love! I thought you were smarter."

"I am. In this particular case, however, I want you to spell it out for me." He was like a dog with a bone. He just wouldn't let it go.

She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to speak. It was a childish gesture, she was aware of that, but that's what he had her reduced to. It was pitiful.

"So that's how you're going to play it then," Methos sighed. She just nodded grimly. "Alright, you leave me no other choice." His eyes settled on her. Their gaze made her feel slightly uncomfortable. He was always watching, always seeing things other people were not supposed to notice about her. She braced herself.

"You're afraid you'll get hurt." His comment was relatively unspectacular because as far as comments when it was only scratching the surface of the problem. Nevertheless he saw her suck in her breath sharply. He was close now. Too close for comfort. In spite of her apparent discomfort, he continued, which was quite cruel, but he was not a merciful man. The way he saw it, she didn't need some sensitive bloke right now who would shy away from the issue and allow her to bury it again under several layers of denial. No, it needed to be addressed. She needed to deal with it. Finally. "Must be pretty lonely. Not letting anyone close. Always keeping everything and everyone at arm's length. You don't allow yourself vulnerability because you don't allow other people to get close enough to you. Tell me, how many times have you actually been in love in the last couple of decades?"

He had his eyes on her the whole time, watching every emotion on her face, even the tiniest move she made, so he also anticipated her attempt to storm off and stepped in her way. She turned into the other direction, he blocked her path again.

"That's none of your business! Sod off!" she hissed at him through clenched teeth. That was when he truly knew his words had hit home.

"No," he said simply and took a step closer. She tried darting to the right. Like a cornered animal. Methos blocked her path again. She was fuming, but she was also afraid. Her hands were curled to fists at her sides. He raised his own hands defensively, trying to convey with his gesture, but also with the look in his eyes that he didn't want to do her any harm.

"Talk to me," he said softly.

"Talk to me," she spat out mockingly, her eyes directed anywhere but at him. Since he hadn't left her anywhere else to run to, she had retreated and was now leaning against the car standing behind her, her arms crossed over her chest stubbornly. Given her constant level of irritation, maybe it was in his best interest not to annoy her further, but somehow it struck him as highly ironical she was leaning against the one car, out of maybe 30 parking in the street, that belonged to him. He best kept that information to himself for now.

"Yes, talk to me," he repeated again. There was no aggression of any kind in his voice, no trace of insistence which was rather wise decision because those two things would have probably pushed her over the edge.

She was staring on the floor now, maybe cataloguing the various kinds of dirt on it. Dust, a couple of small pebbles, a lonely gum wrapper. She was trying to calm herself, trying to work up the courage to talk instead of striking out. He was waiting patiently. She could see as much judging by the shadow his figure cast on the pavement before her. Her anger was slowly dissipating and replaced by another emotion. Sadness. If she was able to pick between getting angry or crying, she would always choose getting angry, but he had bereft her of that choice. Since she had realised that there was no use running, she no longer had the energy to lash out. "How...," she finally started, her voice sounding strangely fragile and very much unlike her, "how...," she tried again, swallowing through the choking emotions that filled her throat, "... do you think one gets to be a courtesan? It's a job that requires a certain attitude. Either you have it or you better make damn sure you acquire it pretty quickly along the way."

"So you had to learn to be like that...," he said, trying to lift a bit of the burden off her shoulders by sparing her the trouble of actually saying it herself.

She raised her chin bravely to look at him. Her eyes were watery, but she was sniffling instead of crying. No one would ever see her cry. Not even him. "Yes, it was tough, but I had to. But it was my decision. I chose to become like that."

"Why?"

"Because it made things easier. It made me get what I wanted. And whatever Lola wants, Lola gets," she said simply. "Did you know there's also a song with that title? I didn't want to be a nobody for the rest of my life. I wanted to be somebody. Nobody gives an ordinary girl an appreciative glance when she enters the room, nobody's going to remember her when she's gone."

"Self-loathing isn't a good lifestyle," he observed quietly.

"No, it isn't," Liz shook her head sadly, successfully blinking away the tears she wouldn't spill.

"How do you really see yourself?"

She let out a humourless chuckle. "Oh, boy! You're so blunt today! What you are thinking right now? Something like 'What the hell, I've gotten her this far, might at least go all the way?'" With the back of her hand she quickly brushed over her eyes, blinking a couple of time. There were red splodges on her face, clearly visible against her pale skin. Apart from the tears in her eyes that she was masterfully holding in so far, they let him know precisely how emotionally invested she really was in their talk. A lot. "How do I really see myself?" she repeated his question from before and let out a long drawn breath, before she finally looked at him again. The outline of his silhouette was a bit hazy thanks to the excess fluid in her eyes, so she figured she could as well direct her gaze somewhere else. Liz leaned her head back against the car, looking up at the sky above them. It was grey and cloudy. When she looked down again, she no longer saw him standing in front of her, instead he now was standing next to her, leaning against the car as well. Somehow he had managed to sneak over there. He used her surprise to his advantage and took her hand in his. She let it happen with a somewhat tortured smile on her face.

"You're aware that's not an easy question, right? But then again you've never been one for easy questions," she sighed. "I'm a bit like Doctor Jekyll and Mister Hyde, I guess. There's this one side of me... It's maybe a bit too pensive, too dull. And then there's this other side of me. It likes to make a mess out of things. It comes out when I let loose, when I don't give a damn. It's anger. It's passion. It's raw, flashy, vain and in your face. On my best days I am at peace with those two sides. With who I am. On my worst...," she fell silent. He squeezed her hand. She gave him a watery smile and bravely continued, because she might as well. After all he wasn't going to give it a rest until he found out what he wanted to know. "On my worst I hate everything about myself."

He looked at her. His gaze soft and understanding. "Don't hate yourself."

"I...," she started protesting. He just shook his head.

"Don't," he commanded with a stern voice.

"Just because you say so? I'm afraid it doesn't work like that," she smiled shyly and risked a gaze at their intertwined hands. It was an outward sign of his affection towards her and looking at it made her feel some semblance of happiness, however faint it was. It gave her reassurance.

"No," he shook his head. "Because it's wrong. You don't need to fulfil anyone's expectations but your own."

"Yeah, well. My expectations concerning myself are exactly the problem," she sighed and let the back of her head fall back against the roof of the car. "They are pretty high. I can never live up to them. Smarter, prettier, faster..."

He frowned. "You'll need to stop that."Actually she could only hear the frown in his voice because she didn't look at him.

"Why?" She finally looked at him again.

He smiled and shrugged. His smile was pretty disarming as far as smiles went because it was genuine, not sarcastic or mocking or anything. "We all have our flaws. You're pretty decent despite of them... Or maybe because of them."

"Right. Decent," she scoffed. "Is 'decent' code for dysfunctional?"

"No, actually it was supposed to be an understated way of saying you're amazing. Clearly that backfired. Shall we go with something different, less ominous than? How about fantastic or brilliant?"

"Oh, give me a break! That's just what you've got to say about me. You're in love with me. It's all those hormones talking and what not," she was trying to downplay his words with sarcasm.

"Seriously?" he threw her a stern sideways glance. "I like to think that I'm above hormones. And besides, I would have even said so if I didn't have any feelings for you. Why is it so hard for you to accept a compliment?."

"But..."

"Wrong word. Definitely wrong word," he admonished.

"Alright," she sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. They just stood there like that for a while, leaning against the car and looking at the row of parking cars on the other side of the street. His body warmth was seeping through his coat and lulling her into a deceptive state of calmness. She let it happen, even enjoyed it. After a few moments had trickled past, however, she finally spoke again. It was time to get rid off all that seriousness and pensiveness. "Well, thanks for the therapy, sweetie. This was fun. Sort of. In a very twisted way, slightly masochistic way. Since I hear relationships are all about sharing the good and the bad... When do we get to talk about your issues?"

He threw her a mocking sideways glance that was leaning just the tiniest bit towards reproachful. "Don't even get me started! That's like Pandora's Box. We won't get the lid back on. It'll take centuries."

"Centuries, eh? Who says I have that much time?" He met her teasing look with a slightly scandalised one of his own. She just shrugged and smiled at him. "Oh don't look at me like that! I'm just saying, let's not get ahead of ourselves. At any rate I'd be willing to lend you an ear if the need arises..."

"Nice, sympathetic, yet kind of non-committal. Can mean anything from a week to decade," he softly nudged her shoulder with his and threw her a brief smirk.

"I just don't want to spook you. A week might be too short, a decade too long. One never knows with you."

"Spook me? Not a chance," he grinned ironically. "In all fairness one can't blame you for a lack of trying, but you'd have do much better to accomplish that."

She turned to him and let her eyes roam up and down his body in a particularly flirtatious way. "Oh, love, I have seen nothing yet. I'm so very, very bad, no one in his right mind would want to spend decades let alone centuries with me."

He mirrored her position, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. "I'm sure you're aware the word 'bad' sounds slightly naughty coming from your lips."

"What if it's only coincidence or your filthy old mind interpreting more into my tone of voice and in a word that simple and trivial as 'bad'?" she smiled at him challengingly.

"Why don't we go over to my place and have a long and...," he inched a fraction closer to her, she felt enthralled by his tone of voice and the mesmerising look in his eyes, "heated discussion on the matter."

Despite of his words and the suggestive way he was looking at her, she managed to resist. Nevertheless her eyes were fixed on his lips longingly when she answered. Her voice actually came out a bit breathy and unsure when she answered. "I... Well, I... I'd love to. But I'm not sure that's a good idea."

His eyes widened in surprise. He hadn't seen that one coming. "Why?" he sounded somewhat offended. His voice had even risen a pitch in incredulity.

"Because...," she rubbed her neck insecurely, "if we go back to your place, we'll end up having sex..."

"And that's a bad thing why exactly?" Despite his 5,000 years of age he sometimes was such a bloke.

She was tempted to roll her eyes at him, but she didn't, because surprisingly she felt compelled to give him a straight answer. After all it was not like she wasn't heavily, make that extremely, tempted by the idea. It wasn't like she didn't find him attractive. He was very, very attractive when he was being all charming and seductive like this. A less cynical person would have even said irresistible. But she had to resist him. For the sake of her sanity. She gulped. A world in which Lola Montez, former courtesan of kings, muse to famous composers, turned down sex had to be truly an insane place. "Let's be clear about this. It would be great sex. No, not only that. Spectacular." At that he grinned. "But that's the whole problem." His face fell. "That's why we shouldn't. For me it's easier to lose myself in you than to actually work through my problems."

"So this is either you telling me in a rather grotesque way you that you want out or you're actually serious and you need some space. Which one is it?" he looked at her critically through narrowed eyes.

"Oh, God! Nothing that ghastly! I swear!" she hurried to reassure him. "It's just me telling you... Hell, I never thought I say this to anyone, especially not you... It's me telling you I don't want... Well, maybe 'want' is the wrong word too... 'Cause I really want to," she sighed, unhappy with her own inability to express herself clearly. He was still looking at her expectantly only now with the added eye-brow-raise. Well, no surprise after her rather disjoint ramble. "It's just that I need some space right now, because I need to figure out a few things about myself first," she hurried to explain.

He threw her another long and rather scrutinising gaze, before he finally nodded slowly. "Alright. Not that I'm thrilled, but alright." In an afterthought he added: "Since we've been leaning against my car for maybe at least half an hour, can I at least give you a ride home?"

"Your car?" her eyes grew huge. She immediately stood upright and practically jumped away from the car in question. Her gaze was alternating between Methos and the vehicle next to them, some fairly nondescript dark green estate car.

"Yes, my car," he repeated again in a somewhat mocking tone of voice.

"Sorry," Liz replied sort of sheepishly.

"Sorry what?" his voice sounded slightly terse now.

"Sorry, you don't need to give me a lift because I've got my own car now?" He made a face and rolled his eyes in annoyance, but she didn't leave him any time to emerge himself fully in his annoyance. She grabbed him by the shoulder instead and pointed at a car standing maybe 20 meters away from them. "See, that one a bit down the road?"

"The red sport car?" he asked somewhat unenthusiastically.

"No, the Land Rover Defender..."

"What?!" Methos shot her an incredulous look. She just shrugged her shoulders.

"I wanted to be practical for once," Liz tried to explain herself.

"Are you planning to go on a safari?"

"No."

"So how exactly is it a practical car?"

"Oh, hush!" she waved at him impatiently.

"No, seriously..."

"Shut up!" Liz admonished.

"Come on, this isn't practical..."

Liz didn't admonish him this time around, instead she silenced him with a kiss. She had wanted to limit herself to a brief peck on the lips, but as always, when it came to him, she had no control over herself whatsoever. What had started out rather innocently soon developed into serious, her-body-pressing-his-against-the-car, heart-rate-accelerating, breath-taking kiss. Of course it took her a few moments to realise what she was doing, but when she did, she quickly broke away from him almost embarrassedly.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, her arms still slung around his neck. Her annoyance with herself was clearly written all over her face. "I hope, you can see now that I was right before. I just can't say no to you."

"You don't have to," he gave to think. She was aware he wasn't being pushy, just stating the facts, which wasn't really helpful in this particular situation. Damn, was he hard to resist that up close!

"Yes, I have to," she smiled sadly and let go off him. "You deserve better than that. I don't want to have sex with you to forget or because I'm too weak to face a few uncomfortable truths about myself. I want it to be about us, not me."

He sighed, because saying the next word was hard, because they went against everything his body told him to do. It took all his self-control and willpower not to throw her over his shoulder and carry her home with him like some kind of trophy. That was at least what he would have done a few millennia ago, back in the Bronze Age. Now, however, he had a better reign over himself. "Okay, I can wait." She smiled approvingly, so he bravely soldiered on. "Just out of curiosity, how much time are we talking exactly?"

"A year," she smirked. Unfortunately it occurred to him that her smile was of the teasing variety, only after he had openly gaped at her.

"No, love. I'm sorry. It was just too tempting," she grinned and patted his shoulder in reassurance. "How does four more days sound? Better?"

"Should be okay," he said without any real enthusiasm.

"I know, nothing that'll leave you jumping for joy. Does it help you if I tell you that you're being very understanding and that I do really appreciate it?" she let her index finger trace all the way down from the collar of his sweater to finally let it rest above his diaphragm.

"No." His hand quickly closed around hers and held it in place. She dared to look up and meet his gaze. The expression in his eyes could best be described as smouldering. It made her breath catch in her throat. She was not used to denying herself something she wanted that much. She hastily pulled her hand out of his grasp and took a couple of steps back. She was blushing, he noticed with a triumphant smirk on his face.

"I'd better be going now...," she said, clearing her throat nervously. She was already taking a few hesitant steps in the direction of her car. He wasn't following her, instead he was leaning back against his own car, watching her retreat with a knowing smile on his lips.

She was greedily inhaling the smoke of her cigarette and then blew it out into the crisp night air. Yes, a cigarette, because chain-smoking cigars would have been entirely too wasteful and even she wasn't that decadent. Her head whipped around nervously when she heard the engine of motorcycle coming closer and was shortly after hit by the Buzz. The motorcycle was pretty fast, it came to stand right next to her, all screeching tires and revving engine and didn't leave her any time to guiltily extinguish the cigarette or kick away the four cigarette butts that were lying on the pavement at her feet.

"Richie," she greeted him softly, her voice slightly vibrating with annoyance and another emotion that was mixed in there, but was indiscernible for the time being.

He opened the visor of his helmet and climbed of his bike. "Liz, what are you doing out here? Aren't you supposed to be inside?" he asked instead of a greeting.

"Smoking," she supplied ironically, waving the cigarette in front of his face for good measure. It left behind a trace of blue smoke in the air. A bit like a tiny airplane.

He pushed the bike a few meters down the side-walk, so that it wouldn't inconvenience anyone and parked it on the pavement right next to MacLeod's car. She followed him, her flamenco shoes making loud clicking sounds on the pavement thanks to the thin metal plates that were attached to their soles at the tip of the shoe and the bottom of its two inch heel.

When she raised the cigarette to her mouth to take another drag, her hand was trembling ever so slightly. And since she couldn't have been shaking because of the cold – she was wrapped in a long, dark, wool coat – there must have been another reason behind it. Even Richie was perceptive enough to notice why her hand was really trembling. "Stage fright?" he asked before he took off his helmet.

She blew out the cigarette smoke and laughed, but it sounded kind of forced and artificial. "Oh, please! I've never had stage fright in all my life. I adore performing."

Richie nodded at her, his helmet now tucked underneath his arm. He was trying to pat down his hair with his left hand somewhat clumsily. He could fix his hair, as to her sour mood - there wasn't much he could do anyway as long as she was determined to not tell him anything. He watched her take another nervous and rather deep drag from the cigarette. She stared down at her own shaking hand and let out a soft curse.

"Screw this and screw him!" she hissed.

Richie already had a pretty precise idea of who she was talking about. He smiled. Unfortunately she noticed.

"Stop smiling, you lug!" she admonished, but for some reason today she didn't quite seem as threatening, especially after he had just come to realise that she was extremely anxious about performing tonight. Despite of the fact that her nervousness was somewhat amusing, especially coming from a woman that never seemed to be nervous or ashamed about anything, he fought down his smile and hurriedly tried to channel a more appropriate set of a mind. After all she was his friend. In a way. Despite the kitchen knife incident at the beginning of their acquaintance.

"I'm sorry," he said and unbeknownst to him triggered her melt-down.

She took a few steps closer to him. Her eyes were frantic, searching, imploring. "Can I have your motorcycle?" She even grabbed him by the labels of his leather jacket.

"What?" he frowned and swatted her hands away. "No!"

"Richie, you have no idea how hard this is... I can't go in there and perform. Not with him around." Her hands were reaching for his helmet now he still had tucked underneath his arm.

"No!" he exclaimed, taking a step back. "I said no, Liz! Okay?"

She flinched back a little, probably because she wasn't used to being told off and also because she was surprised he had managed to do it. Her gaze was all questioning now and a tiny bit hurt, so he hurried to explain himself.

"I'm sorry, but you've managed to get yourself into this and now you better go through with it. What about Joe? Do you want to let him down? If you bail on him now, what's he supposed to tell people?" Richie tried to appeal to her rational side. He didn't even want to know what was going on with her and Methos. The guy might have been the real deal and 5,000 years old, but he sure didn't live up to his expectations. Sometimes he thought it was a pity the other Methos had been killed by Culbraith. Despite the fact that his teachings had been somewhat deluded and dangerous, even he had realised as much by now, some of it had really made sense. All the real Methos had to offer was mockery and a shrug. Not much to go on. Not much to inspire his loyalty.

"Oh, come on, Richie! I thought we were friends," she tried to persuade him, batting her eyes at him.

"Friends," he repeated ill-humouredly.

"Well, you can't seriously claim you had a bad time when you were out with me, can you?" she asked him.

"No, just the hangover of a lifetime," he retorted.

"Oh please! You're still young. A lifetime? Don't be so dramatic! You don't know what's to come yet," she admonished him, somehow miraculously finding back to her old form if only for just a moment.

"Look, I can't help you. All I can tell you is that I'm sorry you're so nervous and that I think, you'll do just fine."

"Aww! Really?" she inclined her head to the left looking at him mockingly. The fake smile that was plastered on her face was only a temporary one. She frowned and tiredly waved him off. "Just get your bum inside and leave me alone, okay? You're not much of a help anyway."

Richie shot her an odd look and shook his head before he turned around and walked off towards the entrance of Joe's which, of course, left her back at square one. She was alone again, out on the street, smoking a stupid cigarette, asking herself whether she should go back inside or run away as fast as she possibly could.

The piece she was supposed to perform today was called Alegria. Alegria was Spanish for the word happiness. The irony made her scoff to herself silently. Yes, she had picked that particular piece, because she had found it appropriate and it was beautiful, but the thought alone of performing it in front of him made her stomach churn. It was not because she was afraid she wouldn't be any good. She was good. She knew that. It was just that these days dancing brought her innermost self to the surface. If she had to dance Alegria, she would have to smile and immerse herself in the music, she would have to show her most fragile side. That part of herself that still believed in happiness. Her optimism and her last shred of naivety that still allowed her to occasionally experiences brief bouts of hopefulness. For what was she really hoping? For happiness? Or even a happy ending?

There were no happy endings for people like him and her. She was under no illusion that she could ever win the Game. The Game was meant for people like MacLeod. He deserved to win. Not her. Probably not Methos either. Her life would end violently. She would live for a while longer and then eventually die by the sword. That thought didn't make her happy. It made her wish she could hot-wire Richie's bike, which she probably could by the way, and drive away. But running was no use. It wouldn't make her any happier.

So happiness was just an illusion? No, even for her that thought was a little bit too cynical. Come to think of it, happiness was simple things really. A laugh, a touch, a kiss. A meaningful conversation or just a trivial one. A decent meal. Someone to hold your hand. Someone to accept you for who you are. Now, that last thing wasn't something small. It was something big and momentous.

Could he accept her for who she was? He claimed he loved her. But those were just words. After a lifetime of lies, scratch that, several lifetimes of lies, she had lost her faith in words. These days she was a believer in deeds. And deeds required courage. Well, she had tons of courage. She'd show him.

She threw her cigarette to the ground and with a temperamental step, extinguished the last reminders of its glow. Her feet determinedly walked towards the entrance of the bar, they carried her down the stairs and soon there were those familiar black and white tiles under her feet. The bar was crowded. It was warm here. She let her coat slip down her bare shoulders a bit, so that she was wearing it like a stole.

There, in between the tables, occupied by the bar's patrons, a square of about five by five meters had been cleared for her. Her band, consisting of three guitarists, was sitting next to the "stage". They were looking quite fidgety, probably because she had already been expected to perform five minutes ago. One of them spotted her and smiled a slow and rather relieved smile at her when they made eye contact across the crowd. She slowly nodded at him, signalling him and his companions to begin.