Jewel held up a finger, hoping to stall for time, if but a moment. When granted (grudgingly or otherwise), he had thrown his suitcase into the back seat, but first, retrieved from it a bottle. As he joined her up front, seizing for himself the passenger seat, he tucked it between his feet. "[color=#8d97bf]Duty-free,[/color]" he shrugged. It would have been stupid [i]not[/i] to indulge himself at those prices.

Part of him needed the liquor; and the other part, a true moment of silence, or the city's vulgar version of it, which wailed relentlessly with engines, steam, and whirring cogs. He still hadn't found his stomach yet for talk revolving around work, business, interviews, and paperwork, though he was never one to deny the woman her meticulous nature, the robust industry which would earn her the promotion she wanted. Some day. All they had to do was notice her, and she had already won them over with her smile, the real, wrinkly one.

"[color=#8d97bf]It was great, Ona. I got to try the real thing down there. From a real tree, not a petri dish.[/color]" He pointed knowingly to her poor-girl's health tonic sitting in the cupholder, the stench of citrus invading his nostrils pleasantly, if not [i]subtly[/i]. It was familiar to him, like the scent of clothes scavenged from around the bed, and pressed to the face, to remind oneself of she who was real flesh just a few hours ago, but now just a memory. When he smelled lemons he always suspected Ona was nearby, fretting over her almost-perfect figure, still not perfect enough. He shut the door behind him, trapping the cold outside the vehicle, but the violent lemon scent inside. Pick your poison. He buckled up; he chose his methods of suicide carefully, and violent vehicular manslaughter seemed to him much too crass. He much preferred the poison route, indeed.