Bobby saw the tights and he didn’t know the name for them. There was a specific name for them–there is for everything, Bobby reasoned–but he didn’t know it; he could pick those leggings out at a glance, though. He thought of them as fractalized fishnets or paisley-patched punkers. Girls had been wearing them forever, it seemed: they used to wear them in the hotel hallways in the old days when Tuesdays were a party night because no one had any idea what day it was.
Girls wearing those tights were never Deadheads: they would go out of their way to mention it and Bobby liked that, laughed at that. “Then why are you here?” he would ask them and they would just laugh. Bobby would laugh, too, if they were cute.