Jaime dances.

Her outfit has long since become entirely too beautiful to concisely describe; suffice to say that it is gorgeous. Her dancing has become similarly transcendent; her darkness is incorporated flawlessly into her every routine, and she seems impossibly perfect, gold and silver gracefully wending through worlds of invented shadow.

But she can’t spent all of her time on a stage, and she does have other interests.

She shoots at swarms like they’ve embezzled from her bank account. She has a girlfriend, who resembles a bitch in many respects, and a dog, who is one. She occasionally audits courses at Stanford. She works, just a touch, for miscellaneous businesses with a need for programmed endarkening. She eats well. She paints. She flies. She radiates quiet disinterest and disdain at regular intervals.

And, all that aside, she does still need a place to live.

She’s acquired a select assortment of people who she tolerates enough to call ‘friend’. One of those tolerated few - Naomi - proposes an arrangement. Jaime, Naomi, and a friend of Naomi’s, living together in a cozy apartment right by Stanford.

The three of them are supposed to meet at this tidy little cafe, today, to discuss that arrangement. Jaime receives a call from Naomi, a few minutes ahead of time, saying that she won’t be able to make it, and that they should go ahead and have lunch without her.

Jaime stays at the cafe, waiting for - she thinks her name is ‘Margaret’, or something like that - waiting for Margaret to arrive.