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"You call this art?" Jen gawks at a human-sized sculpture that reminds her of a blue awareness ribbon.
"It's supposed to represent a vagina," Selina says, who knows about this stuff. Jen gawks some more, and wonders why she's never been here before. She thought art galleries were dry and boring and uninspired, full of old paintings that everyone has seen too often or else doesn't care about. "You can touch it if you like. Feel your way around."
"Are you implying that I suck in bed?" Jen says, mock-affronted, then decides to pick up on the double entendre. "Well, I do sometime. Not that you'd complain."
Selina's smile is smoky sweet, quite the picture of perfection, it might find its way among the famous portraits around here one day. If Jen is still alive by then, she'll be able to brag: we were lovers once, so long ago. Now all I have are sweet memories and a likeness that doesn't do her justice. Alas!
They stroll from room to room, like two women at leisure, like they belong here. Jen feels a little awkward, because she doesn't.
"So, what exactly are we doing here?"
"Research."
"Another contract?" Selina is of the less-you-know variety and doesn't mention her job in so many words, but it involves procuring collector's items for high-paying clients. At night. In a catsuit. Jen isn't stupid.
"Hello pretty," Selina addresses the exhibition piece that was advertised on posters outside. Her next mark. "Soon you'll be mine."