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[whiteabsolution]

Sugar is sitting in a booth, all alone, with books and magazines spread out in front of her. She was going to try her best to learn all she could about the different time periods after her, their music, their clothing, their art; everything she read was pushed to the back of her mind and saved for later. Once in a while she tears out a page of a

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[misterparker]

Parker is staring sullenly at the door and drinking whiskey earlier than usual. Someone is not happy.

[misterparker]

"America, west coast."

He shrugs. "And Italy, kind of."

[whiteabsolution]

Italy. She's never been but she's read books about it, heard it was nice, the country of romantics. "America. I've never been." She remarks.

[misterparker]

"How about you?" He looks attentive.

[whiteabsolution]

"London, England." She answers.

[misterparker]

"I've never been," he says, dryly.

"What's it like?"

[whiteabsolution]

Sugar lets out a small sigh, resting her elbow against the table and then her chin on her hand. "Bloody awful. Smelly, crowded..." She rolls her eyes.

[misterparker]

"Sounds like a big city," Parker nods.

"What do you do?"

[whiteabsolution]

"I'm a prostitute." She says flatly. "Or was. I write too."

[misterparker]

"I sometimes have sex for money," Parker says. "Sell my ass. What do you write?"

[whiteabsolution]

"I do anything a man wants me to do." She comments. "Erotica. Murder. Both together."

[misterparker]

"Write or perform?"

[whiteabsolution]

"I'm sorry?"

[misterparker]

"You ever actually killed someone?"

[whiteabsolution]

Sugar shakes her head. "As much as I've wanted to sometimes. No."

[misterparker]

"He pay you?" Parker asks. "The guy you write for?"