When she got to the chorus of

"Tattoo Vampire" ("Vampire photo suckin' the skin"), her voice rose and she started playing the air guitar.

Really into it now. Getting down.

A moment later she realized that people were staring at her.

She lowered her hands back to her sides, dropping her well tuned air guitar into oblivion. The song faded from her lips. She smiled, shrugged.

"Uh sorry."

The crew returned to work without so much as a second glance. Air guitar gone, Sara tried to think about something both distracting and comforting.

Michael immediately came to mind. She wondered what Michael was doing right now. He was probably jogging home from basketball practice. She pictured all six feet five of him opening the door, a white towel draped around his neck, sweat bleeding through his gray practice jersey. He always wore the craziest shorts loud orange or yellow or pink Hawaiian ones that came down to his knees, or some whacko-designed jams.

Without breaking stride, he would jog past the expensive piano and into the den. He would turn on a little Bach, veer toward the kitchen, pour himself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, and then drink half of it in one gulp. Then he would collapse into the reclining chair and let the chamber music sweep him away.

Michael.

Another tap on her shoulder.

"Telephone call." The same man who had handed her the sheets of paper handed her a portable telephone.

She took the phone.

"Hello?"

"Did you start singing yet?"

She broke into a smile. It was Michael.

"Blue Oyster Cult?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me guess." Michael thought a moment. " Tton't Fear the Reaper?"

"No, Tattoo Vampire'."

"God, how awful. So what are you up to now?"

Sara closed her eyes. She could feel herself beginning to relax.

"Not much. I'm just hanging around the set, waiting to go on."