Mar. 6th, 2005

pop_tarts: xtina's ass (dirrty)
J finds her smoking against the wall at alarm, six hours before Busta gets to work. "What are you doing here?"

A shrugs; "can't go home," she says, and then hesitates. "You ever see someone die because they were sick before?"

J leans on the wall beside her, and takes her cigarette. They're sweet, dandelion maybe. Real tobacco is too expensive for her tastes. "Once," he tells her. "When I was a kid. Rich people die because they get sick, sometimes, and the surgeons can't put them back together again."

She stares down at her arm. The scar, from where the doctor had to restitch her bone up from the inside out, was obvious in the sunshine. Her skin is faint pink beneath the brown tan, the leathery skin. J has a thousand scars on himself. "You ever get sick?" she asks him. J shakes his head; Christina says, "Mer's dead," and gulps.

--

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