Morning in the city, hurrying towards work on Michigan, the sun just edging over the lake—I saw her. She was tall with wide shoulders and thin limbs. And had a gawky gracefulness to her movements, like a fashion model slightly out of practice. “Pretty woman,” I hummed to myself.

A scruffy panhandler snagged me with his cup. “That’ll be twenty-five cents,” he said. He was blind and not quite toothless.

“Huh?” I said.

“Twenty-five cents,” he repeated. “For the song. Royalties.” He shook his cup.

I began reaching into my pocket. “Wait,” I said. “What about fair use?”

“The way you sing?” the bum scoffed. “Forget it. Cough up the quarter.”

The coin clinked into the metal mug.

“And another one for the description of the girl. James W. Hall. Under Cover of Daylight. W. W. Norton & Company, New York and London.” The man shrugged. Gave me a dark smile. I dropped a second quarter into his cup. By this time the pretty woman was somewhere else. Out of sight. Where ever pretty girls go. I set off for work again.

The liquor store had a sign in its window. “This week only! 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Royalty Free!”

Too early.