Under tongue, she can taste a devastation to come — all roaring seas and grand expositions of green light, smoke rising; but she’s not quite sure yet if it is herself or the air. Only time will tell, she’s convinced. It always does. In the meantime, she’s leant casually against marble column: expectant, glittering with bad intention. There’s a copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince lodged between her fingers, but she’s beyond pretense; she has read it a thousand times, her eyes roam elsewhere. Instead, her gaze is fixated upon an approaching figure ascending the steps towards her, and feigning spontaneity, she makes a calculated step right into their path; lips cradling a sardonic comma, slant shoulders at once raised and straightening. “Hey, baby,” she says in greeting, but whether it is mocking or genuine remains indecisive. “All alone?”