Gerta sang along to ‘TVC 15,’ seemingly the sole person in the amphitheater, aside from David Robert Jones himself (these girls did not know his real name) who knew any of the old stuff, the obscure tracks, the songs that weren’t ‘China Girl’ or featured in the latest Rock Band video game. These girls, thought Gerta, looking around. These young girls. These texting, gum chewing, pathologically-unimpressed girls. They do not deserve to be here. They have not earned it. They do not deserve these smooth shoulders. These unlined faces. The casual assuredness that their futures would work out and that they would never be touched by loneliness or disappointment or loss.

But as the concert went on and he came out for his first encore, eyes shining, those formerly-crooked teeth now so large and white and American, she realized that it didn’t matter. Because these girls with their woolgathering minds, they would soon grow bored and drift off to something else and the amphitheater would empty. The sparkly purses and the impossibly thick ponytails and the tattoo glimpses would all disappear through the fire doors and she would be the only one left and he would be there on stage. Alone. With an acoustic guitar. And he would ask what she wanted to hear. And she would answer, “All of it.”