Reports from the Dead Museum: Semblances

Semblances

She had bright shiny teeth that glistened in the light of the
neon bar sign.
"Is your name Steve?" I glanced up and down her body. It was sheathed in a dress for success kind of suit. The fabric was doubled into the right thickness and creased and sliced its way around her like an elaborately folded linen napkin. She had white stockings on and her outfit was green. I passed my eyes over her slight cleavage and looked into her bright inquiring face. Her visage seemed unsure. She knew I wasn't Steve, so she was ready to pass on with her three friends. I looked her straight in the eye and asked her to sit with me.
"You can catch up with your friends in a minute. What's your name? She hesitated. Her friends were watching now, drinks in hand, and bemused. She sat on the vacant barstool and said she'd catch up in a few minutes.
I don't know why I'd made this move. Although she was attractive, with short blond hair in the typical blunt cut, my head was in the middle of some convoluted thoughts on my drawings.
Here's to the new year, I proclaimed solemnly. We raised our cups of doctor nitro plastique and quaffed.
Gunshots were going off now with numbing regularity. Every
trigger-happy bozo in town was relieving their itchy index finger and probably sending, collectively, a few tons of lead into the sky, to come down who knows where. I always expected a few bullet holes in my car after a night like this.
I glanced over at her sidelong, feeling shy now that she was sitting down next to me.