[Angelique 01]

The waiting room looked like the sort of place interior design had not just forgotten, but left out entirely. The floor's dirty sea-foam and cream checkerboard of vinyl tiles brought back memories of that spring break she had spent getting violently ill on the cruise ship, and it turned her stomach so badly that she winced and took a long, slow sip of her lukewarm coffee. Why did everything always have to be white and lit with florescent? It showed the grit and the age like a gallery display, and the mingling stench of mildewing sheet rock and antiseptics was doing the place no favors.

She shifted in the cracked vinyl cushion of the chair, the soft wool of her trousers catching and snapping on the curling tears and the exposed and disgusting foam beneath. She tried not to think of the people who may have sat there before her, depositing whatever filth they carried on themselves into that same foam stuffing, tucking it away safely where no amount of Lysol could ever find it. Despite her efforts, she wretched at the thought, and fearing the chair now she got up to pace.

How long was this going to take, anyways? She didn't like being in this part of town, and besides, she had another appointment to keep in Birmingham this afternoon; a more important, scheduled appointment to keep. She couldn't come running downtown every time her little sister had another urge to fix the entire family's attention onto herself. At twenty years old, Angelique had been in her third year of college at Michigan State, majoring in journalism. Her little sister, afforded the same privileges since birth that she had, was now working as a waitress in some dive in downtown Detroit and doing God only knows what in her off-time. She could only imagine that it was jealousy and an inability to grow up and deal with her own life that made her call Angelique into each and every melodrama, a passive-aggressive attempt at making her hated older sister feel the same pain and helplessness as she was feeling, no doubt. Well, this was the last time Angelique would humor her, end of story.

Somewhere behind her a door swung open.

"Angelique Bordeaux?"

"I'm here, where is she?"

The nurse, a strikingly beautiful young black woman wearing pale green scrubs, motioned with her french-tipped fingers for Angelique to follow her.

"I have to go soon, can't we just skip the whole process and move this along? We've been through this before, far more than I'd like to admit actually."

"Miss Bordeaux, we're well aware of your sister's medical history, and I'm sorry to take up your time, but this is not crying wolf. Your sister has been assaulted, and her head sustained a lot of trauma. If you'd please come with me, I can explain things further, and you may be able to see her.

The floor had dropped out from beneath her, and it took her a moment to process all that the nurse had told her. She was stumbling for words, her eyes scanning the room wildly as if she had just woken up from a dream and found herself there. Adjusting her purse on her shoulder, she simply nodded and followed the nurse through the doorway.

[Darvin 01]

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so sick without having had too much to drink the night before, or a virus of some sort. His head was throbbing in a perfect close harmony with his heart and his stomach was dancing along clumsily. His joints and his muscles ached as if they were protesting his very existence. He should have never even gotten out of bed, but the alarm had been so insistent. At any rate, the motions of the day seemed more tolerable than making excuses to his squat, "middle-aged," and fiery redhead of a boss, Karla. He'd always found it best to avoid giving her any excuse to be upset with him, especially this early.

The bus driver hit the brakes abruptly, and the contents of his stomach shifted right along with the rest of the buses' cargo, but he bit it back to avoid the embarrassing situation of throwing up on the poor little old lady in the unseasonably layered attire sitting across from her. He couldn't bear the thought of her hand-washing and hanging all of those delicate sweaters at her obviously ancient age. Besides, she had been the only one not to stare at him when he'd boarded, but instead had offered him that weak-cup-of-tea smile of hers. He had taken this to heart, as if it were a nod of approval from the elders of the tribe for getting up and fulfilling his obligations to society regardless of his weakened state. He gave her one last nod and smile, and got off two stops early to avoid the next two brakes, just in case.

Walking the last few blocks seemed to be good medicine, breathing the soothing scent of the river and the heady musk of ancient motor oil, gaining his bearings again. He walked into the diner feeling somewhat less annihilated, and even his stomach had somewhat settled back into it's original clumsy waltz. He knew he didn't look any better, on account of Karla taking the time to speak to him.

"You look like God bitch-slapped you. Twice."

"Good morning to you too, Karla."

"You okay, Darvin?"

"Yes. I'll be fine."

"Look, if you got that pig shit that's been going around, you can take your ass right back out that door and sleep it off. I can't afford a staff infection."

"It's not swine flu, Karla. I was just up really late drinking."

"Well you sure do clean up pretty for a drunk, then."

"Thank you, so do you."

"Well if that isn't a compliment every girl longs to hear."

"I live to please, Karla. What do you want me to do?"

"Now if only every man in my life could be that cooperative! I want you on flat top today, and I need you to keep that cooperative spirit, cause Kendall's your only server today, along with me if you can fathom it. The girls all went drinking last night and lost one of themselves somewhere in Hamtramck, Stacy I think. They're down at the station right now, raising a fuss about filling out reports and forming search parties. I got money on the whore showing up bowlegged and sticky in twenty minutes."

"I fucking love you, Karla," he chuckled, grinning ear to ear at the mental image conjured up by her intricate spell of sardonic and crude humor.