" use the internet or whatever. " hand-batting away requests for references, palm stifling questions before they can surface. " i'm not your goddamn yellow pages. " at the end of the hallway, wall paper's leeching away from the plaster, pasty-tongued, tacky & brown underneath. her thumb stubs hard into the button, which refuses to stay lit as the machine jolts & stutters up the chain. jessica licks around a fuck me, jamming the little plastic shell again.

the flicker of the elevator call light punctuates the end of her unusual, and seemingly rehearsed script. though the entire thing seems unwise from a business proprietors view. ❝ I'm not looking for the yellow pages, ❞ sherlock counters, shifting around to take up her periphery. he glances around to confirm nobody has stepped out of their apartment before he continues. ❝ I am here because I read an article several months ago about someone you helped. they'd been falsely accused. ❞