Ever since Molly had graduated from Northeastern four years ago she’d been working at the vegan hot dog stand and playing as many shows as possible at T.T.’s and the Lizard Lounge and sometimes, if she was lucky, Club Passim. She had a couple good songs, one about a tomboy riding the highline through Montana, another about coming out in fourth grade. She had some bad songs too, but she needed filler.

She first spotted Beth at one of her shows from her perch atop her rickety stool. She noticed Beth because she was older, heavier, and more fastidiously dressed than Molly’s normal fan base. Large-bosomed and prim, Beth reminded Molly of a camp counselor at some camp she’d never attended, who was critical of the children but stood naked before them. Who taught them how to pull the udder of a cow with slipping, lubricated fingers and didn’t realize how erotic it was. At twenty-seven, she was a virgin.

Molly referred to Beth among her regulars at the hot dog stand as Counselor of My Heart. Her lust inflated as she eased bobbing dogs from their boiling juices, painted ketchup on buns in the shape of wobbly lips. “She sounds perfect,” businessmen and professors agreed as they chewed through tubes of soy. After five friend dates, Molly cornered Beth before a screening of Happy Together at the Brattle and kissed her. To Molly’s surprise, the involvement escalated from there. Beth had definitely come close to saying she loved Molly the other day. Her eyes were glassy with nerves as she said she had to tell Molly something. Molly changed the subject fast. Beth couldn’t love her, being so much smarter, so much more put together. Not dependent on substances. Not a failed musician.

Molly got viciously high. But no matter how high she got she was haunted by that pale tail sticking out of the ice, paws pedaling water thick with cold. She dug out her travel guitar, three-quarter sized, a gift from Beth, frankly higher quality than her main guitar. She warmed up on scales and picked out a new tune. Just A-D-A-D-A-D-C, plain as you can get. She tried to make it funny, to cheer herself. “Counselor of My Heart,” she sang. “Counselor of My Heart, don’t come home too soon. Counselor of My Heart, I hope your flight’s delayed.” Her throat was sore from screaming for Chowder.

As she wound down the first verse, there was a tight-fisted rap at the door. Molly extinguished the joint and kept playing. “Will you forgive me, Counselor of My Heart? Will you still sleep with me like you do so well?”

The rapping continued. The Harvard kids were so urgent. They even brushed their teeth urgently, specks of blood flinging onto the mirrors. They washed their faces until they shone like peeled beets. On their eyelids were fierce marks where they bore down too firmly with eyeliner pencils.