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she supposes, close enough. He is pretty, and blonde, tall
and slender and aloof, and people don't brush by him as
they walk past. Most of them don't even seem to see him
there. He plays a black-painted violin, the case open at his
feet but no stray coins gracing the blood-red velvet inside.
He locks his eyes with hers and she knows him without
even having to ask. He arches one delicate eyebrow at her
and she is not so sure that she can really give the answer
she always thought that she would.

He says, "Would you be open to a transaction?" and
she looks at him. Not a "yes," exactly, but not a "no."
Her silence invites him to go on. He says, "I know what
you want. I think you have something I'd be willing to
take in return." She keeps her silence, standing in that
subway station, staring at the devil. She knows her mask
has slipped and that she cannot hide the indecision in her
eyes, the desire. Some people lust for power, influence,
fame; she craves song instead. He knows. She can see it in
the sharp edges of his smile.

He lays out the terms, crisp and clean and clear. She
gets ten years - ten years of singing like no one has ever
sung before, ten years of the most beautiful voice that ever
has been or could be, and in ten years' time he comes back
to collect, in return, her soul. She looks for loopholes in
his language and cannot find them. She weighs the
options, tracing her fingers absently over the ink at her
wrist. She considers Hell, burning fires and twisted
creatures and eternal torment. She considers her life,
watching it flash by on her mental movie screens, sees it
already careening downhill toward a splintering voice and
a splintering career and a splintering heart. She considers
the demons she already knows, the ones disguising
themselves as the whole notes in her bloodstream.

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