She lets go of my bracelet, exclaiming, "You're telling me! Everyone should just do as they please."

Cheryl raises up from the seat, swaying in her high heels towards the mini-fridge.

I choose against asking her if she is an anarchist and veer the discussion in another direction.

"Does that apply to gender roles?"

The woman picks a bottle of pre-mixed mojito from the cooling device, travelling back to the couch. She sits, getting close to me by crossing her right leg over her left, presumably by inadvertence. My former patient unexpectedly reaches beneath the hem of her crop top, fleetly pulling a switchblade out from God-knows-where. Startled, I watch her as she uses her pocketknife to tear the seal off the bottle and pop the cap out of its neck. Cheryl unceremoniously tosses the blade onto the low table next to us, drawing a copious amount of liquid from the bottle she recently opened. She slams it back down against her thigh once she's done.

"Roles, ha! I've never understood people's obsession with following the rules. What's up with all these arbitrary scripts, rules and restrictions, these expectations, these norms and constructs and ugh..!" She throws her head back in frustration, before recovering her previous position to keep going: "It's all so worthless and stupid! None of it matters, not really. And yet, people make such a big deal over it, like any of it changes anything... In the end, it just makes everyone suffer so much more."

A bitter laugh escapes from her throat, and I am genuinely shocked by the sudden depth I perceived as she began to speak more softly, yet rapidly, as her brows furrowed and her eyes twinkled angrily. I hear my cellphone buzz twice inside my pocket, ignoring it to test my interlocutor:

"Eventually, we all follow a norm or two, right?"

"Maybe you do. I mean, no offence, but even gender and all that is pretty messed up. It doesn't even make sense, it's all a bunch of dumb, meaningless words." The young woman leans forward and away from me, to pour some alcohol into my emptied water cup, whipping back against the couch's back to stare into my eyes. A mischievous grin splits her face in two, however her voice is both sultry and serious as she speaks. "Listen to this, Tanza, society is one big joke. Heck, life is one big joke. Who cares what rules we should or shouldn't be playing by? Cheating is way more fun, anyway. And it always gets you what you want."

I thoughtfully reply: "Maybe that works for you."

My phone vibrates again, but I stay focused on our conversation.

"In fact, it does. I hope my other comment didn't... Ruffle your feathers, as one might say." She shrugs to accompany her remark, ingenuously drinking a fair amount of more mojito mix.

"Of course not," I begin, slightly uncomfortable to be discussing this subject with her. I continue, talking faster than I usually do, nearly spluttering. "Gender is a social construct, and I agree that it's ridiculous. I'm non-binary for a reason."

I cannot remember the last time I spoke of my identity with someone without having to justify myself or hold back my tears, along with a wild wish of just making them understand. Somehow, even though I feel inexplicably embarrassed, she is smiling at me. And not a mocking, condescending, "you're going to Hell, child, better pray" smile. A gentle one. A smile of understanding I have rarely witnessed before.

She picks my glass up and hands it to me. After I accept it, she clinks her bottle of liquor against it, toasting joyfully: "To doing whatever we want! And being who we are."

Cheryl winks at me and, then, proceeds to - more or less silently - slurp down the last of the receptacle's contents.

I barely dip my tongue into the light green beverage, swallow my saliva and the few drops of it hastily, then put it back down. I pull my cellphone out of my jeans' back pocket, furtively entering my PIN code and pressing on my messaging app. The four notifications are messages from my coworkers. Three from Colin and one from Leah.

Leah sent me a selfie of her pointing at a sign, with a smirk as she looks sideways at her finger. She's wearing a white top with long off-the-shoulder sleeves from what I can see. I read the facade of the establishment behind her in the picture: "The Goldberry Pint". It is a classy lounge bar in one of Gotham's better neighborhoods, if those can even truly be considered "better".

The other paramedic's messages provide context for Leah's selfie.

(Hi Tanza)

(how are you?)

(If you want to hang out just text me back. Were at the goldberry pint)

Despite the lack of proper punctuation, it is all very clear, thankfully. I glance up from the screen at Cheryl, who playfully tells me:

"Well, you seem to have other plans. I'll leave ya to it."

I raise my eyebrows, apologetically formulating a sentence, "I wasn't even planning on going with them. My colleagues, I mean. It's just a work thing."

Her laughter startles me.

"I think you should go. You know, building a sort of workplace camaraderie can be very beneficial."

The young woman exchanges her empty bottle for my cup, which she sips on with apparent thirst.

I doubtfully tell her, "Right, well, hospitals aren't really similar to the entertainment industry."

She waves her hand, dismissing my comment. "Nuh-huh, all workplaces are the same. Even strip clubs and restaurants or whatever you wanna compare. Now..." Her smile widens. "Text 'em back."

"Why does this matter to you, anyway?"

I begin to type my message, and she only answers me once I have sent it.

"Can't I give you advice? I happen to know a lot about management and workplace dynamics."

"You do? How come?" I inquire, still much more involved in getting to know her than networking with my colleagues - or whatever it is she thinks I should be doing instead.

"Performing isn't my whole life, y'know. I have some side jobs, I'm a, uh..." She directs her stare towards the ceiling. "What's the word I'm looking for?" She stretches her left arm across the top of the couch to drum with her fingertips against it, biting her lower lip. "Uh, y'know, like a... When you... You're taking care of everything, y'know? Uh, like..."

She mutters an unintelligible word, convincing me to suggest: "Manager?"

"Hmm, oh, yeah! That's the one." She points at me repeatedly with her right hand, before letting it fall limply at her side. Cheryl rests her head upon the back of the sofa, humming faintly. "Hey, do you wanna..?!" she suddenly exclaims, louder than necessary. Her voice trails off before the end of her idea, though. Her bright green eyes tiredly swerve around my face, and she abruptly starts laughing, burying her head in the crook of her left arm.

Apparently, alcohol hits her unexpectedly within a single moment, rather than affecting her with the usual buildup people commonly experience.

I look down at my cellphone, already used to the young woman's almost hysterical giggling. Colin replied to my message.

(we are still here. Do you know when your coming over?)

I swiftly send a response: (Maybe 20-30 minutes. Is that ok for you guys?)

(Yes)

The text pops up on my screen instantly. I guess he was waiting for my answer, most likely to inform the others how long they would have to stay there before changing locations. My phone buzzes against my palm, and I cock an eyebrow, slightly surprised by what he sent me.

(we're excited to see you soon)

It is a sweet message, although my coworkers are not technically my friends. They are just nice individuals who, clearly, appreciate me. They are presumably "excited" because I rarely show up when they get together.

"Alright, I'm leaving. Are you going to be fine on your own?"

Luckily, she has ceased laughing uncontrollably. "Yeah, yeah, of course. It's better if you don't stick around for too long. My boyfriend's probably gonna come looking for me eventually."

I set my hat back onto my head with my left hand, raising up. "Oh, right."

"And even if we don't believe in monogamy, you wouldn't believe how jealous he gets..." She tipsily gets up from the couch, stepping closer to me. "Wait." She grabs my device, which I had been holding this entire time. "Let me give you my number, I want us to do this again... On purpose, y'know."

"Sure! That sounds great, go ahead," I calmly allow her, internally freaking out.

I did it?! I earned her trust?! This night may be a success after all..! As long as I get out of this nightclub alive and without bumping into The Bull, obviously. One can only hope.

~

Installed in the driver's seat of my car, I stare at the screen of my cellphone, the sole source of lighting in the prominent darkness of dusk. The ten digits of Cheryl's phone number appear to be etched into the thin glass cover, vibrantly pale against the navy background of my contacts application. I left her inside the private room, exiting the premises quickly and unnoticed. I read the assortment of numbers over and over again, stunned by my own feat. This is the first time I scored an actual contact instead of just eavesdropping or asking inconspicuous questions when I felt bold. If all goes well, our acquaintance could prove incredibly useful. She is seemingly a high-ranker, and I might be able to gain crucial information from her, regarding her boyfriend's business transactions or associates.

I add her first name, "Cheryl", into the contact window, glancing at the field underneath it: "Last name". I make a mental note to find out what it is the next time we speak, turning the device off. I enter "The Goldberry Pint"'s coordinates into my automobile's GPS, then rotate the key in the ignition. My coworkers are waiting for me.