Pico is a city without stairs. Why would there be? Every window is a door. They sit with their backs to all that empty space and when one of them gets pushed over, why, up she rises again, laughing and swearing good-natured revenge.
Cedar cadges a lot of lifts, and they’re pleased to help her out, swooping down, so far down, to take her up in their arms. She’s a furious-faced infant that belches forth smoke like a tramp steamer, cigar clamped defiantly between her teeth. They think she’s adorable. They buy her a lot of drinks.
“Let me tell you a story,” she slurs in Rachel’s ear as they swoop from the dimming lights of the bar toward an all-night diner. “The city of music was more regulated than I–“
“Later, dearheart, later. I need me some cheese fries. I’m gonna do seven kinds of murder on some cheese fries.”
“You’re my best friend!” Cedar throws her arms around Rachel’s neck and they nearly spiral into a wall. There’s a great deal of laughter and spinning before they make it to the diner.