(no subject)
Marisela's heard of the place, of course. It's become something of an icon in the new Chicago. So when she breezes through the door of the Wasteland, her long, flowing skirts swirling about her legs, her face lights up.
"Well, here I am," she says to no one in particular. Sliding her woolen cape off her shoulders, she walks straight to the bar, as if she'd done so a thousand times before.
"Well, here I am," she says to no one in particular. Sliding her woolen cape off her shoulders, she walks straight to the bar, as if she'd done so a thousand times before.