acroatiicus
Quiet violin music played throughout the dim restaurant as Sara lounged in the almost-hidden booth seat. Her legs were crossed, and one elbow rested on the table, allowing her to gently rock her glass of wine.
She sat patiently for a few minutes. She was early after all. The investigator awaited the presence of a man, however, she had seen him before plenty of times. It was not in the romantic sense, but the business sense--the way she intended on keeping things between them. The two had an interesting relationship.
After ten or so minutes, the time the two planned on meeting, the male arrived empty handed much to Sara’s dismay.
“On time as usual,” the female began, “...but you don’t have what I want.” She set her glass of wine down, and gestured for him to sit. Once he took his seat and made himself comfortable, she ended the lull.
Sara cleared her throat and straightened her posture. She let out a small, condescending chuckle and pointed out the missing object, “Where’s my Schiele? If you don’t remember, I wanted the 1917. What you have is nothing.”
