TenT. J. D’Abro arrived two hours later and smiled slyly at Machuzak’s unintentional snap of his head. Jettisoned were yesterday’s stylish accoutrements and beauty-queen persona. Overnight she’d transformed herself into an Austin slacker, an authentic biker chick arrayed from top to bottom in leather and studs. Only the swath of green hair identified her as the same woman he’d met at Scholz’s. No, after barely taking his extended hand, distraction seized her and she swooped in on the infernal bird, then followed her curious nose toward the other lobby exhibits.
Machuzak watched, wishing to touch her naïveté. Nevermore. She lacks his sense of premature obsolescence. She does not know that what the exhibitors have forgotten to reveal is that many of the projects on display were long ago can
