Scribble: Trying to pull nothing out of something.

      She slides past the counter, disappearing into the kitchen once more. Her hair seems to follow her a few paces behind; her face is just a made-up mask, stolen from a dime store Pierrot.
      A door opens, another customer slides into the bar. She emerges once more, hair barely moving, face barely moving, holding a basket of fresh wings so close that the oil's gotta burn. Not a flinch, though.
      Stepping back into the twilight of swinging lamps and burnt-out bulbs, she smiles, as shadows steal away the thick lines of compound and eye shadow, leaving her resplendent. Her hair is absolutely perfect, raven locks that never stray no matter how many times she turns her head to take an order.
      Now who is the fool, of course.