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April 20 2009, Monday Jill cupped her hands around her eyes: no difference. Still the same purple haze. She had to concede that it was a pretty thing, this cheerfully dark blanket of blackness. But a hopeless romantic likes to blink back at the stars. A stupid romantic like her, even more so. From somewhere behind her there was a crash of bass against metal; the unmistakable sound of guitars being tuned to life. Jill stretched her legs, the soles of her shoes gliding down the Beetle’s paint. She heard the sound of rubber grinding lightly against gravel. Jill lay…