Silver Bonaparte is the psycho-killer blonde I met last month at this grocery store rave in Northeast. "Pour me another one," I ask her politely, whilst she sidesips my martini with her neon blue straw. A naked dip in the neighbor's pool. Silver doesn't follow normal codes of conduct. In the short time I have know her, I have known her to; rescue nine dogs from the inhumanity of leashes, and therefore their tyrant masters; cement sixteen yellow "deaf child" signs into the lawns of governmental office buildings; and hold three ex-lovers hostage until they would give her back her heart.

"Love is a dangerous angel," Silver sits tall and squares herself to my hunched shoulders, "And I love danger."

I don't face her; her eyes are looking to ignite something, and I am full of doused ideas.

I pick apart a napkin with some hopeful's telephone number scrawled across it--not my napkin, but Silver's, "Love just leaves me bleu--aged and sour."

I meander on about the vanity of blacks and purples, the cross-stitching of lives, and the absurdity of painted glass. Silver's eyes never leave my hands while I speak. I imagine she sees how unsteady they are, how faltering.

Before I duck my head to say goodbyes, she digs her violet nails into my arm and demands, "Never leave bed before high noon, never apologize, and never--don't ever--let them take you dead. Fight like hell before you have to sink your teeth in."

I think Silver is a beautiful vampire, living eras before her time. She fights wars while the humans dream away the twilight, twisted around their worser halves. She wants me to fight too, but I can't sell my life to some cause--I am too busy trying to own mine.