The flowers were lilies, her favorite. The poem he'd written her was heartfelt, yet not excessively mushy, and with just a touch of Goth. He'd get her back, just like he always did. For a while, at least.
Trent pulled up to the Zen, where the Harpies were probably finishing their afternoon set. With his weapons of love in hand, he got out of the car and went in.
There she stood: The Goddess of the Guitar, Monique, was as gorgeous as any supermodel he'd seen. Long midnight hair cascaded down her back, with her bangs dyed red; a sunset before twilight. Her eyes were twin black rhinestones, and her skin like milk. She was beautiful. Almost as beautiful as Quinn.
Trent's eyes widened at the thought. Where had *that* come from? He quickly forced it out of his head.
Monique turned her head sideways from him, putting her hand up to the side of her eyes to avoid making eye contact.
"Monique!" Trent called, walking up to her. "Here," he said, handing her the bouquet. "These are for you."
"But I'm allergic to flowers!" protested Monique. "AH-CHOO!" she cried, pretending to sneeze.
Trent frowned. "You weren't allergic to them last week," he noted. "Come on. They're your favorite."
"God, Trent!" cried Monique. "Why are you trying to make me out to be something I'm not? I don't like flowers, especially lilies. Do you have to be so controlling?"
Trent scratched his head. "Gee, I could have *sworn* you liked them."
"What? Did you have me confused with some other woman? You cheat!" she accused. "I bet it was that� that *Jane* girl."
"Janey's my sister," said Trent. "And I'd never cheat on you. I love you."
Monique snorted. The snort turned into a chortle, which then became a full-throated laugh. *"Love?"* she guffawed. "Oh God, Trent, that is *so* last year! It's like how you were still hooked on the whole 'death' thing back in high school when the rest of us grew out of it and moved on to gratuitous sex. Look around! It's an election year. You know, 'screw the system� don't bother voting because you're screwed either way� that kind of thing?'"
"Sorry," said Trent. "I didn't mean to be unfashionable with my feelings."
Monique sighed. "Trent, look. Yes, we had a good thing, but it's time to move on. We both have different lives, now. It just wasn't meant to be." Her eyes narrowed in thought. "When was your next gig again?"
"Um� this Wednesday," answered Trent. "Right here," he added.
"Oh," said Monique flatly. "Well� that's what I mean! You need to play places other than here! I'm sure the pay scale's bigger for one thing."
"Funny," retorted Trent. "You guys are booked afternoons here for the next month."
"Are you in� insin�"
"Insinuating?" guessed Trent.
"Hey, quit putting words in my mouth!" cried Monique. "That's it, Trent Lane! You and I are through!"
"We were through already," noted Trent.
"Well� we're even through-er, now!" She turned to the two men standing by the stage. "Razor! Snake! You got all of my stuff loaded, right?"
"Sure thing, Monique!" said Snake.
"I worked the hardest!" declared Razor.
Snake whirled on Razor. "You did not!" he cried, shoving the blue haired twenty-year old.
Monique smiled winsomely at them. "No need to fight over *me,* guys! You both need to look your best� for tonight."
Snake and Razor's eyes lit up.
"Come on, guys," said Monique. "Let's go."
As Monique walked out, her two suitors formed up on either side of her, their hands moving downward to rest her butt-cheeks.
As soon as Trent got out of the club, he spied a trash can. With a sigh, he threw the bouquet of lilies in the garbage.