The guitar chords die away, and there's a smattering of applause. Thanks. That was my last song, I've been Trina Jensen, thanks for listening tonight. I've got some CDs and shit if you're interested.I kill the mic and sigh. Nobody's interested. Not since they realized I wasn't going to show any more skin or sing anything they knew. I'm used to it, and I don't expect more. These people come out for beer and a good time with their buddies, not to hear the depressive chick singing about how shit the world is.Except you. You're here alone, and you've watched me through every song. I glance at you while I coil up my cables, wondering if you'll find the nerve to approach me. Maybe you'll even part with ten bucks for one of my albums and I can buy myself a coffee on the way home. Miracles can happen.