Fate, a former thought, was unforgiving. Toyed with her heart when rolling storms of stretchers, patients rowed peripheral to peripheral, obstructed pathways to you. A woman, a civilian; some embodiment of casual bravery.

Then, the eve turns slothful, tucked you in a forsaken cranny. Dressed casual, swigging, and in need of company.

When fate grants her a shot, you fucking bet she'll seize it.

"You look... familiar." Italian notes abut your shoulder swings your gandering towards the source. Meeting that stunner's brown eyes is a heedful length for her to wedge your features exactly where into memory. Nanoseconds in, and click, it did.

"Were you the girl at the hospital who..."

"Delivered the nose," you cut right in, "the things firefighters get into, right?" and the freakish imagery camping in her skull's cavity is suddenly waning its freaky facet.

"A firefighter..." and the nose lady. Scrambling into the ER, tomato-red panting, and equipped with a severed snout in a plastic seal—the hospital staff have tragically carved that as your second identity. Odd, sure, ignites a few what the fucks? at a whim, yet staging the story's ambience frowns the laughing tracks.

Trickling whiskey into your gullet sheds the untold details. How you got there, what happened are questions casted for further probing. Lip-reading fits the activity more.

The bar's hubbub all insignificant to her—alongside your voice—save for the pink, supple lips containing it. Goes on to cleft, briefly flick the tongue to taste the alcoholic gloss, then something about camping trips and bear attacks. Maybe—it makes the most sense.

But as you can see, the woman is shameless. Utterly shameless about her fiery wants that you, no doubt, have noticed her eyes have dipped lengthier than can be platonically intended.

Though, she smoothly strays them to her held drink before you call her out on it. "Sounds hectic... and stressful," drawling to veer to a theme aligned with her interest; "You drink here often?" The topic of you.