There are bustles of other noise in the shop. A few people had been here when you first came up the stairs, but more have filtered in since. One is talking excitedly with the bar boy, but they're too far away to eavesdrop. Sipping your juice, you admire the matted waves of her dark hair; almost-black, undecided between warm and cold, spilling onto the table. Her head is on her arms. Her skin looks rough, pallid, goosebumped, but still somehow soft looking. Her t-shirt sleeve strains against the curve and stretch of her shoulder. A shock of wiry hair sprouts from her armpit. There is one long tattoo that emerges out from under the edge of fabric and scrawls all the way down to the joint of her pinkie finger. You imagine it must've hurt. You look closer at what you realize now must really be her horns. Through her hair you can see the point where they join to the skull. Sharp, straight, and perfectly conical. They have waxy bands of orange color. And suddenly, she's waking up. She stretches her arms out, quivering, before getting her bearings. She meets your gaze. "WH4T 4R3 YOU LOOK1NG 4T?" There is drool on her face. "H4S H3 BROUGHT TH3 CH3CK Y3T?" You shake your head. "OK L3TS JUST FUCK1NG GO TH3N FOLLOW M3" She gets out of her chair but stays kind of low to the ground, puts one hand on the edge of the balcony, and throws herself over the edge.