I met her in a record store. She was the type of girl you’d expect to find in a record store in Greenwich Village — big black shoes, long hair tinted a hue not found in nature, ripped blue jeans, a Queensryche t-shirt and rings on her fingers, in her earlobes, and through her nose. Not the type of girl I usually fall for, but on this particular day Cupid must have been feeling unusually mischievous, because I felt his arrow go straight through my heart.

Her nameplate read Chandra, an appropriate moniker. It was an exotic name for an exotic girl and had a touch of East Indian mysticism. Her complexion was white as chalk, and her eyes were like two black holes in space, openings to vortexes where men like me slowly spiraled to the far reaches of infinity.

Her large dark eyes regarded me as I gave her... Read More