A knot compresses my throat.

"Yeah," I utter, nodding as I plaster a fake smirk upon my nervously rigid features.

This is far from ideal. I had not given this possibility much thought, but I now realize that establishing myself as a known member of Cheryl's entourage will not benefit my ulterior motives and anonymous goals. Especially not in the crooked and prying eyes of "the law".

"I knew I recognized you from somewhere..! You were at that mall The Joker blew up, yeah?"

Fortunately, the youngish officer seems... Eager? More happy to meet a fellow rescuer of lives than suspicious of my connection to Cheryl.

I try to look as serene and candid as humanly possible.

"Yes, I was there. I'm sorry, I didn't notice you."

"No worries. That crime scene was in-sane, right?!" He sighs in an exaggerated way, rolling his eyes.

I blink twice, disarmed by his blatant lack of empathy toward the victims. Sure, the crime scene was disturbing, yet I think the people who died or suffered life-altering wounds were more impactful.

He fills my silence with an even more terrible comment.

"Like, we'd never seen that. Much. Blood. In a while! Right, Brent?"

His coworker nods almost imperceptibly. I swallow, pushing out another meaningless "Yeah."

"My gosh, you boys work too much! You look all stressed and all. How 'bout you come by the club tonight, huh? I'll save you a booth and a nice bottle."

Cheryl pinches her lips, leering at them with a sultry air. Brent clears his throat, but agrees enthusiastically.

"How could we turn you down? You have yourselves a good day."

The lustful perversion that wavers in his large, bulging eyes disgusts me  down to the most secluded regions of my stomach.

"I'm Mike, by the way," the other introduces himself, still in my direction, "I didn't catch your name."

I freeze for a second, unsure as how to react properly and cautiously. His radio suddenly crackles, its message overshadowed by the howls and wails of police cars, speeding down the street outside.

"Looks like you're gonna be busy. Don't let us keep you!"

Cheryl wiggles her slender fingers gracefully to bid them farewell. Brent taps his coworker on the shoulder, muttering "Duty calls," and they both hurry outside, speaking into their walkie-talkies. The tiny bell over the entryway door jingles gloomily, and my lunch partner swiftly recovers her former body language, crossing her arms over the tabletop and inching closer to me.

There is perceptible excitement in her gaze and she victoriously states:

"You hate cops."

The crushing amount of pleasure in her demeanor nearly makes me fall off my chair. I gawk helplessly at her, snickering in awkward gasps.

"I mean, hate is a pretty strong term."

"But an accurate one," she smoothly counter-arguments, nearly singing.

"I just think that the GCPD are sloppy and disrespectful. Most of them are, anyway."

I dig the short nail of my left thumb into the tip of my right-side pinky finger, hoping my contempt for law enforcement does not feel forced, but simultaneously does not lack the necessary intensity.

"There are worse people than cops. Snitches, for instance."

She is undoubtedly sending me a message. I settle on an honest strategy, concisely telling her about my most recent interaction with police officers. I leave out any personal details from the story, though. The young woman lightly bites her lower lip, and her vivid green eyes are stretched open with considerable astonishment.

"That's horrible! Personally, I like cops the way I like my jokes..."

"Dirty," I complete, realizing only afterwards that I uttered it out loud.

She guffaws shortly, then proceeds with her thoughts: "But that doesn't stop me from thinking that their system is useless. I don't think I ever grasped how lazy they can truly be."

Cheryl delicately runs her right index and thumb along the base of her lower lip, pondering.

"So, you went out last night?" Her question is too sudden for me to prepare a believable lie.

"No, I was just roller-skating." I spoke confidently, to entice her to share her hobbies as well.

The more I can get her to discuss subjects she is passionate about, the better. It is a surefire way to increase her appreciation for me, by pairing ideas of things she loves with my presence.

"Hold on. You roller-skate?!" Her voice nearly morphed to an ecstatic squeak.

"Yes, I love it. Do you roller-skate?"

"Do I roller-skate..?!" she exclaims, seemingly in awe, "Yes, I do!" Her affirmation is backed by an undescribable power of resolution.

A whirl of joyful warmth spins around in my stomach.

"Really? How long have you been roller-skating?"

"Uh, only since I was born! Give or take a few years. I loved it when I was still in my mom's womb! Do you compete in anything? Races, derbies? Figure-skating? Shows?"

She is almost on the edge of her seat. I chuckle, struggling to rein back my own giddy excitement.

"No, but I roller-skate multiple days every week. You?"

"Yeah! I've been doing derby races for years, now. I absolutely love roller-derbies! It's all about the performance, y'know."

Her smile is beaming, and the manner in which her eyes are shining is the closest interpretation of "having stars in one's eyes" that I have seen in my entire life. She keeps going, adopting a half-whining tone.

"I miss it a lot, I haven't raced in a while..." She doggedly sets her chin upon her right palm, with her elbow propped on the table.

"Because of your job at the club?" I wittily observe.

Her pupils flick up, stabbing mine. A mischievous smile slowly spreads across her lips.

"You caught that?"

"Yeah, of course I did. Is that where you are working today? The club?"

I made sure my intonation was gentle and curious, to avoid antagonizing her with a verbal assault or by implicitly insulting her breadwinner.

"As a matter of fact, it is." She clasps her hands together, and a devious air crosses her glance.

"What's it called? Maybe I've heard of it."

"I don't think you would know about it. It's really just a tiny strip club, we don't get many customers."

I inhale forcefully, as subtly as I can. If I blushed easily, my skin would probably turn vermilion up to the tips of my ears right about now. Is she..? I should have prepared myself better for this outcome, having more or less anticipated it. I did not expect her to be that kind of dancer, although the possibility that she lied to me previously about it floated in the back of my mind.

"What do you do there?"

My focus is inexorably attracted to her clothes, scanning them for signs that they are easily removable or that they could be simply unfastened. Painfully aware that it looks like I am openly ogling at her breasts, I heave my eyes up.

"I already told you I'm not a stripper."

She is biting into the side of her cheek, discernably playful as she adds, "I'm the manager."

"Oh, wow." Thankfully, I sound impressed, rather than surprised.

I was not able to stop myself from instantly reacting but, at least, it was not in an offensive or overtly judgmental way. I am unfortunately at a loss for words, but not completely in uncharted territory. I mean, we are just talking about her job, right? So I can ask her a classic, but open-ended question to help her forget my nearly brusque response.

"Do you like it?"

"No." My heart plunges into the coldest pits of my stomach, and a chill grapples me. I messed up. I ruined everything. "I love it."

Her close-mouthed grin pierces my torso violently. The woman knew what she was doing when she let out that somber negation. Overwhelming relief, along with the uplifting nature of her smile, wash my discomfort away.

"Were they usual clients of yours? Those cops?"

It is a bold query, however, if she answers me... I will know I earned her trust today.

"Yeah... Brent's on our paycheck, but Mike's just an idiot, honestly."

She reviews her nails intently, allowing me a brief window of time to recover from the initial shock of hearing her confess this without any ceremony or secrecy. Not even the slightest remorse or worry, not a care in the world was translated into her disinterested voice, which she did not even bother lowering, incidentally. She could have been telling me about the weather in San Francisco.

I want to know more about the implication behind "our paycheck", but I will not risk this small achievement by pushing my luck too far. Instead, I chuckle in agreement with her comment.

"No, really?" Irony complements any conversation or gesture so nicely.

"Hey, why didn't you tell me that you were at that mall, by the way? That thing with The Joker was all over the news!"

"Oh, it's just work stuff. I didn't think to mention it."

With a broad, joking smirk, Cheryl tells me, "Yeah, well, you should've! It must've been scary! I would've loved to hear about it..! Anyway, I expect to know everything about you at this point."

"By 'at this point', you mean, what, a week?"

I laugh, and her defined laughter bleeds into mine.

"Of course. It's only natural that we know each other to the fullest extent. It's really quite unforgivable that you did not tell me about something so interesting."

Her impishness effortlessly makes me smile, and I contribute to her taunts.

"OK, that's unfair. I don't know everything about you, Cheryl."

"Fairness is overrated. I try to be fair, but sometimes it leaves me wondering. Why should I be fair when life so inevitably and obviously isn't?"

The shift from teasing me to pronouncing a philosophical discourse was somehow abrupt, yet entirely fluid. Like water turning into wine. Well, more like wine turning into water, trading frivolous warmth for something fresh and central to life. I breathe out, entertaining these thoughts.

"Isn't that all the more reason for us to try to be fair? It might not be perfect at first, but... I... We have the power to enforce fairness."

"As society deems it?"

Her tone is mocking, pressing me to impulsively retort:

"As I deem it."