You know the Queen of North Street. Even if you don’t live here. The girl from that charming small town with gingerbread buildings made of icing and candies to bring in the tourists, who grew up in an apple pie home, wandering into the year-round Christmas store with her friends in the middle of summer, hiding a flask in her purse.

Confetti eyes. Star spangled nails. A cross on her neck. A diamond ring on her finger and one dangling in a spot you’re only allowed to guess. The diamond ring that turned the key in the engine of her car, taking her to Vegas, the dust whipping through the lavender ribbons of her blond hair.

She’s on exhibition in Vegas, a series of photographs in a gallery. The Queen of North Street sitting in a diner, holding a martini, a neon cowboy straddling the marquee behind her, staring ahead, pretending you’re not there.

The Queen of North Street’s a chorus girl in sequins and feathers, screaming to the back rows, up to the nosebleeds, echoing into the rafters. She prayed to stained glass ceilings above slot machines and card tables. She watched it explode two weeks before Halloween. The Queen of North Street returns, shattered glass and a cracked windshield., and the whispers swell to an unbroken wave.