"Why not? Time's a drag. I mean, when you can go anywhere, any time, it's just not fun anymore." He ran a hand through his now-bleached, feathered hair, and exhaled with studied boredom.
  "But it's you I like because you're stuck. You always feel behind, lost, trashed--you're always on the losing end of the clock, the hands point always at the big L."
  Tab tapped a yellow coin on the table, glancing over to the table, where Vanity was now sitting with the men. Her beat-up jeans. The dirty shirt. The black-ringed, skittish eyes. This was a poorer, desperate Vanity.