At around a quarter past 5 o'clock, Cheryl and I exited Freakland's incredibly underwhelming house of mirrors, and she led us back to the parking lot. The limousine from earlier was waiting with a different chauffeur. I did not mention it, nevertheless it is a little odd. Maybe the owner of the limousine service is the one who owes her a favor and not our previous driver..? Or maybe it is a chain reaction of outlaws doing favors for one another? Either way, we are sitting at the back of the vehicle, and it is rolling away from the amusement park.

I rub the strap of my plastic wristband between my right forefinger and thumb. I held out my left arm at the amusement park, when the employee at the entrance fastened the showy yellow bracelet around it. These types of cheap bracelets are annoying enough on their own, but they are the epitome of unbearable when they are placed on one's dominant hand. I despise feeling hindered in my movements by small objects, such as jewelry. Therefore, I chose to keep all the troublesome accessories grouped together on my left wrist. And by all, yes, I mean a single watch and a centimeter wide band of bright itchy plastic.

My acquaintance giggles, telling me, "Here."

She reaches underneath her left boob, up her cropped burgundy shirt, pulling out a pocketknife with conspicuous ease. She nimbly sits to face my profile, leaning over my shoulder and latching her free hand around my left forearm from its underside. She gently lays my arm down into my lap, brandishing her exposed knife in a worryingly loose hold. Her emerald eyes review my inner arm with an intense concentration, before she suddenly brings the blade down, inserts it between my skin and the bracelet, then snaps it upward to cut through the cheap material. The Freakland wristband yields immediately, and she pinches it with her slender fingers, letting go of me and throwing it away in record time.

Tucking the switchblade away into its hiding spot once more, Cheryl is perceptibly preparing to ask me something.

"So, where would you like to eat? What do you feel like? Italian? Seafood? I know a really bad taco place..!"

"Anything sounds good. Except the bad tacos, unless you..."

She interrupts me: "I'm gonna stop you right there, Peanut. You're unbelievable! This is your birthday dinner. Lucky for you, I already got us a reservation at 'Herb's Platters'."

"Cheryl!" I interject, "Isn't that place kind of expensive? Not to mention, I'm not dressed for a nice restaurant..."

Truthfully, my outfit is considerably more "proper" than hers, if judgement had to be made. My main concern is the enormous amount of money she appears to have spent into today's outing. Additionally, 'Herb's Platters' is renowned to be crawling with dubious clients, although that is quite frankly the case with every establishment around town.

Cheryl flips her hair behind her shoulders, peevishly chiding me: "How about you stop worrying so much, hon? Trust me, no one's gonna be lookin' at your clothes. Not with such a pretty face."

"Hm, mine or yours?" I tease her.

"Whaddaya think?"

I chuckle, ready to change the subject.

"Did you call me 'peanut' a minute ago?"

Laughing ecstatically, she needs a couple of seconds before she gives me a reply.

"Yeah. You like it, I hope?"

"I mean, it's... Just, why 'peanut'?" I smile, half-embarrassed.

Perchance I should have ordered food that is not peanut flavored in front of her, at least once.

"I think it's fitting. You love peanuts, after all! And you know..."

"What?"

I smirk, and she nips at her lower lip.

"Never mind."

The car is slowing down to drop us off, and I never get to hear the end of her sentence.

~

I hold the back door of the limousine open for Cheryl, still in disbelief that she paid for my meal as well as her own on top of every expense she has already demonstrated today. Once we are both seated, the automobile departs again toward an undisclosed location.

"And now, the moment we've all been waiting for..!"

My ex-patient giddily slides over next to the mini-bar. I fold my right leg, placing its ankle across my opposite knee, watching her. She cracks the cooler's small chrome door open and lifts a glossy champagne bottle from inside of it, not without a thrilled laugh.

"Cheryl, I don't exactly... I'm not a big drinker." I shake my head slightly, grinning unavoidably at her joyful efforts. I hastily reiterate, "You've done much more than enough already. I had a great birthday thanks to you, but sipping champagne inside a limo isn't my thing."

"It is now!" she exclaims, before grabbing two glass flutes from the bar top and propelling herself back to my side.

"Here ya go..."

She confers them to me to hold, which I do, praying that the chauffeur does not make a sharp turn or brake abruptly.

The woman unwraps the seal of the bottle, carelessly tossing the foil paper onto the floor.

"Now, let's go!" Clutching the neck of the bottle in her left hand, she plasters her right palm around my wrist.

To my surprise, the car slowly stops, as if it is parking. I try to glance through the tinted windows, to no avail, while I slip the flutes downward between my fingers to avoid dropping them... Where are we? What's..?

Cheryl kicks her passenger door open - with impressive accuracy and swiftness - and yanks me to follow her outside. Stumbling behind her, I gawk at the Gotham City skyline. We are on the Trigate Bridge, and the limousine is parked near the colossal railing as well, freeing up the road for other vehicles. The sky is ink blue, but the smog transforms our view of the stars into a constellation of blurry dots. My former patient has stepped up to the guardrail already and she turns to face me partly before I have joined her.

"Make a wish, Tanza!" she screams, rapidly popping off the cap of the bottle, aiming at the firmament.

A spout of sparkling wine is liberated from the opening, dripping wildly into the deep river, hundreds of feet below us. She swings the champagne bottle back towards me, clear foam still trickling down the forest green glass.

"Glasses, please!" She skips over to stand closer to me, and I hold the flutes out.

Cheryl pours us two full glasses messily, with a single tipping of the bottle. The overflowing pale wine splashes onto the concrete, probably also divided into minuscule drops that will stick to our shoes. Meanwhile, the performer is humming the tune of 'happy birthday'. Snatching her champagne flute from my grasp, she proceeds to clink them together.

"Happy birthday, Tanza!" she concludes, visibly proud of herself.

I observe her as she nearly empties the glass in one gulp, gingerly sipping on my own. The hazy night time air seems to ripple around her, and the vivid lights of Gotham behind her trace the outline of her silhouette. The body of water beneath us is dark to the extent of seeming bottomless and the skyscrapers are reflected on the horizon in spite of the occasional waves. The evening is loud and disturbing; punctuated by gunfire, screams of terror can be heard over rageful quarrels against a continuous beating of minor explosions, windows shattering, fists meeting skin and infants crying. Tires screech over the wailing sirens of security systems, fire fighter trucks, police transport and ambulances, all chopped up and sometimes covered by the noise of helicopters. The symphony of Gotham City, our home. It stupefies and irrationally lures the listener.

Teasing laughter grapples me out of my thoughts.

"I knew you wouldn't want to spill champagne in the limo. How is it?"

"I think you know me a little too well," I joke. "Oh, and it's... It's good wine, I guess."

"I'm glad you like it," she says softly, twisting the foot of her flute between her fingers.

A few minutes later, after having sufficiently taken the view in, we are settled in the limousine, which is heading to my misleading address. I believe the chauffeur is purposely taking unnecessary detours, hopefully at my host's demand. I would hate for such a... Fun day to end with our abduction.

Glancing at Cheryl, while she speaks and drinks her fifth cup of champagne already, an unusual warmth fills me. I am reminded of the fresh night air gliding across my skin earlier and her enthralled face, beautifully lit by flickering lampposts and the shuddering moon, half-formed behind strings of gray clouds. Suddenly, as though I did not before, I realize that today is my birthday and this odd, exciting, surprisingly smart, hilarious and intermittently kind stranger made it the best day I have had in... Years? I shakily put my glass down, only the equivalent of three sips is gone from it.

"... so, obviously, there's no way he'll ask out Jackson after what I told him. Speaking of... I need to give you something!"

Cheryl discards her flute, to extirpate a small cubic box from her purse, which she presents to me between both her hands.

"Happy birthday!" she almost squeals, jerking her hands higher to invite me to pick up the container.

The box is made of smooth thick black cardboard and feels light inside my left palm. I carefully open it, faced with an unrecognized piece of jewelry, laid neatly on a layer of foam sponge. There are two pins, one shaped like a heart and the other like a spade, both connected by a chain, silver like all the components.

"Thank you so much... It's gorgeous, just... What is it?" I chuckle awkwardly.

"It's a collar chain! You know, those things you can attach to your shirt collar, and it can also keep your tie in place, if you're wearing one..!"

Oh.

"Cheryl, I wanna thank you. Today was really special and I enjoyed it... A lot."

I close the lid of my gift, balancing the box between my right thigh and my hand.

The gangster smirks mischievously. "Well, now you owe me a favor."