A/N: I don't know where this came from. I just sort of had an image in my head of two people in a crappy diner together and wrote this. Flame it if you want. I know it's sort of bad.

A stream of dying, copper sunlight hits a bleach blond curl, the ray glancing off from the unnatural luster and falling on a tired, yet unwrinkled face. The curl had been a mud brown at birth, the sun always finding a hiding place in the thick darkness. The face had once been youthful and exuberant, a smile, with a few missing teeth arbitrarily spaced, had stretched to create two big dimples. The dimples are still there, but the teeth have grown back, and like the hair, give off an unnatural sheen.

The hair and the face are fake. Just like the girl who owns them. She's lost the innocent girl who she used to be, and now she's willing to be whatever you want, just as long as you have the money.

She's seated across from a young man, who looks just as tired as her, but the deep circles under his eyes aren't covered with make-up, and he seems to wear his exhaustion with pride. He knows that people will respect him no matter what he looks like, as long as he supplies them with the magic powder that makes their troubles float away for a moment.

In this city of graffiti covered walls and smog choked air, it's a wonder that anything can take away their troubles.

She still clutches onto her childhood, still grabs at it when she can. He's long abandoned it, knowing that in this city, there is no innocence left, though his young countenance conflicts his philosophy.

She's young of mind, but old of body. He's old of mind, but young of body. What an interesting pair they make, seemingly making up for what the other one lacks.

Even though he knows that innocence is long gone, for reasons he doesn't understand, he has to turn his head when she takes a sniff of his powder. It's how they met, and even though he could never regret meeting her, the heartache that comes from watching her and knowing that his powder is the reason she has to sacrifice what little purity she still retains cuts him deep inside.

He only sees her on Wednesday nights, business is slow for both of them then, when the junkies are too high to remember that they're running low, and the business men have used all of the good excuses for the week. They always meet in the same place, a crappy diner with crappy food and waitresses who wear skirts so short that they might as well be out on the street with the girl. They're too poor to order a real meal, so they settle for an appetizer and a beer, and sometimes another beer if business has been good. They drink their problems away and laugh at drunken jokes that neither of them think are funny.

And it's okay, for them, at least. It's as close as they can get. They're afraid to dive any deeper into each other, because eventually, the added depth of another's sorrows will cause them to drown. But lately, the boy thinks that he might need a life preserver, because he keeps diving, and each time, it's harder to resurface.

When the waitress brings the check, it's the normal routine, they each pay for what they ate, and double and triple check the bill to make sure they're not getting overcharged. Then they just sit, and try to ignore that as soon as they each leave, the problems that they were able to forget will come surging back. They've tried to shove this thought into a small corner of their minds for the time being, to ignore it for the moment. They're reluctant to leave this one moment of sanity they have in the week.

But eventually, they do, with a quiet mumbling of goodbyes and a small hug. He doesn't remind her that he has her powder, and she forgets to ask. He wants her to get away from it, he wants it so badly for her, because he knows she deserves a second chance, even if it'll never come.

They go their separate ways, he in one direction, she in the other. As she takes her route to the church where she's set up home for the week, she sings a simple tune, and the first stars of twilight seem to sing with her.

Maybe it's the alcohol making her think such things. Maybe it's the child that grew up too fast that wants to still believe there's magic somewhere. Maybe it's because she loves a man who loves her back, but will never say it, just like she'll never tell him.

It's Wednesday night again, and the girl sits in the regular booth, her thighs sticking to the vinyl seats and the metal spring that protrudes from a tear scratching against her too short skirt. She's shaking a little, and she can't remember when her last fix was. The past few days have been torture, but she's dragged herself here because she knows that if she doesn't she'll regret it all week.

Besides, who'll help him decide between mozzarella sticks that are more breading than cheese and fried calamari that's never swum in an ocean?

She laughs a little hysterical laugh, and the waitress gives her an odd look. He's late. Maybe he's not coming tonight. Maybe he's given up on her. Maybe he's moved to a new place where the junkies are rich, white kids that'll pay a pretty penny to be rebels. Maybe he's dead, the powder that brings so much bliss his undoing.

She waits until the waitress tells her to leave, and even then, she sits on the stairs, forlorn and lost without the strong arms that hold her when the tremors are too strong, without the booming laugh that's never real, without the kind brown eyes that tell her that she's still human, no matter what she does in the dark. She falls asleep there, and no one has the heart to shoo her away. Or maybe they just don't care when there are so many people just like her sitting on stoops just like the one she's sitting on.

It's Thursday morning. He's still not there.

A copy of yesterday's newspaper filched from a dumpster has his picture on the front. They say his name was Robert James. He'd told her it was Tim. They don't say much about him besides that he was caught in a sting operation and that when the police tried to take him, he'd struggled, killing two officers and eventually himself. They fail to mention that he'd always been fair, never putting baby powder into his product to sell more, that he'd always checked on first time customers to make sure they hadn't gotten carried away. They didn't mention that a silly eighteen year old loved him.

The newspaper didn't mention that his last words were, "She's going to be waiting for me. I have to go." And she'll never know.

She walks away from that dumpster without crying, without even a sniffle. Because as much as she'd wanted to stay away from the deep, she'd tricked herself, because even though the water was shallow still, she'd gone too far from shore.

She still went to the diner on Wednesdays. She still did her job. She still took a sniff of powder when it all got to be too much.

But even though those things hadn't changed, so much else had. She didn't sing with the twilight stars anymore. The little girl in her didn't show herself anymore. She was an adult. Cold, callous, hard, unfeeling. She went through the motions of life without wanting to, and often had to remind herself why she even tried anymore.

When the pimp offered her some help with picking up clients, she didn't protest. When the client wanted to take her for a joyride, she didn't argue.

The police would find her body in the river that summer, bloated with water and heat, her hair knotted and tangled with river muck so that it was brown, her teeth knocked out, her face past recognition. Even though it was a grisly thing, her case would go cold because no one cared that some hooker had died. But the officer who'd found her would always remember one thing.

She'd gone with a smile that was real.