The Prince is restless. He has not enjoyed himself at the Outpost and the evening is almost over.

"Let's go to the Seagull and see if we can find some *real* music," he says.

Cindy is not sure the Prince would recognize real music if it bit him on the foot. It is so easy to criticize, is it not? She figures if the Prince was on that stage, he couldn't play dead. It's a lot harder than it looks. The band had not been up to her high standards, either. It certainly wasn't up to Sir Lightnin's standards. But the mere fact that they could start and stop together and that they plunged ahead in spite of their obvious weaknesses is something to be acknowledged and appreciated.

"Who's at the Seagull?", she asks.

"Green Onions."

"Oh, I know them, they're great. Let's do it."

They sweep into the Crosseyed Seagull, royal personages amid the feudal class. They are greeted by open stares, their finery marking them and setting them apart. The bards finish undressing Cindy with their eyes. The maids are taken by her Bajoran earring. Strangers approach to bow low before her and tell her how beautiful she is. The Prince scores a Bud and a Shiner Bock. Cindy scores a table.

Green Onions is a great R&B band. Cindy looks to the stage with wonder. How they managed to fit their huge band on that tiny triangular stage is more than she can comprehend. But there they are, all eight of 'em, crammed onto a stage the size of a thong bikini.

The lead singer is a Jagger knockoff. The longish hair, the square jaw, the big lips. He even has the same strongly chiseled features, his face a study in geometry. He imitates Mick's style, prancing and emoting. As much as he can, anyway, in the 5 cubic centimeters of space he's allowed up there.

On Cindy's left, the Prince is rattling away. This time it's about how the singer is obviously a faggot. Not only is he a faggot, but the Prince has determined that his lover is the bass player.

Cindy senses a pattern emerging. She takes a long pull off her Shiner Bock and glances sideways at the Prince. He is a handsome lad. It's a damn shame he's so full of bullshit.

Suddenly Cindy hears the opening strains of "Please Come Home For Christmas." Her heart leaps. It is her very favorite Christmas tune, her favorite Christmas blues, and she has not heard it yet this year. How she has searched for it on the radio! Christmas does not officially start until she hears "Please Come Home For Christmas." She has punched the buttons, twisted the dial, scanned the entire length of the radio band ... to no avail. But now Green Onions is playing it!

She looks at the Prince. He's looking at her. "Let's dance," she says.

It is the nicest dance of the evening. Cindy and the Prince sing to one another as they move to the music. Cindy revels in the Prince's maleness, in the way his arms enfold her, the way his body feels against hers, the faint scent of his cologne. He twirls her and dips her. Sings to her. Clutches her tightly as if she is a precious treasure. It is all illusion, of course, but she laps it up. On the dance floor he is a different person. On the dance floor, he is tres cool. How to keep him dancing?

The band plays the final number and announces "last call". Cindy and the Prince finish their beer, load into the carriage, and return to the Prince's pad.

They stand for a while beneath the stars, the Prince talking. Cindy leans against a rose-covered trellis, listening. He is turned in profile to her, as if he is speaking to the Cosmos itself instead of to her. She looks at his face, bathed in the faint light of the quarter moon.

He is a study, the Prince. He is first and foremost a kind and generous man. Generous to a fault. He'll give you his last dime without compunction. When he's in the right mood he has a great sense of humor, and can be something of a charmer. He is full of contradiction, however, and much too vulnerable. She thinks she would like to know him better. She would like to know him well enough to get past all the bravado and braggadocio and bullshit, down to the real person she senses inside the facade.

It ain't gonna happen tonight, though. She puts out her cigarette. The great cosmic clock is striking her hour of departure.

And this time, she ain't leaving nothin' behind.