The keyboard player was dead, dead so long you hardly saw t-shirts with his picture on them anymore.
There was another guitar player, offstage, behind a curtain, to augment the original guitar player’s arthritic sounds.
Dinner had been wonderful, oysters and wine.
The limo was a bit much, but Patrick really wanted the night to be special and it was nice to know they didn’t have to drive home.
Roxie danced in her seat, the later on it, singing along to the hits and the deep cuts, catching up to the medleys even when the segues to songs from different eras were abrupt.
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