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13.5cm custom insulated steel briefcases lay stacked one on top of the other like playing cards in front of her, deadbolted to the surface of the bar table with thick padlocks and corner-clamps so as to prevent anyone not strong enough to bench 40 kilograms from walking away with them. they sit beneath the fog of tragedy that hangs low in the snake pit. post-rush hour finds the other seats at the bar vacated and the last patron scurrying off into the night with whatever remaining loose change he didn't spend on drinks. the bronzed glow of the orange-black neons cast shadows off of her severe and square-angled facial structure, making the harsh contours seem borderline cadaverous in their rigidness, while in her hand she's pouring over patient records she absolutely should not have possession of.[break][break]

whenever she grows bored of the inner machinations of people's private lives, she amuses herself by rotating the vials around each other in their neatly labeled rows, watching the chemicals separate and tumble over one another inside their sloshy chambers. acetone. sulfuric acid. batrachotoxin. like colored test tubes inside a child's chemistry kit.[break][break]

time ticks over to half past eleven, and she slides a magnifying glass one aisle over on a medical chart with her off-hand while tapping a rhythm into the bar-top with her other hand. there is a hand off to be done with one calliope this evening, the contents of the briefcases, and absinthe finds herself salivating over the idea of testing something... new on the woman.[break][break]

of course, if only she arrives.

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