And our girls have the same hot pulse in hands and hips. And their laughter is hoarse and brittle and clarinet-hard. And their hair that crackles like phosphorus. That burns. And their hearts beating in syncopation, wistfully wild. Sentimental. That is what our girls are like: like jazz. And the nights too, the girl-jingling nights: like jazz: hot and hectic. Agitated.[4]
