Ivy dances around her apartment, spraying her orchids and basking in the contentment they radiate. They soak in the fine mist and reward her with their healthy glow.
Another glow, more sickly and artificial, illumines her living room. In it, Harley's sprawling over her couch like a forgotten ragdoll and balancing a glass she's trying to sip from. Without seating herself upright first. When that doesn't work, she picks out the pineapple wedges instead and pops them into her mouth.
"Don't tell me you've been fishing the fruit out of the punch bowl already."
"But I like fruity bits," Harley giggles.
"Why? Earlier, you wanted to wait for the girls to arrive."
"I got cravings," Harley slurs and wiggles her hand at the TV. The liquid in her glass sloshes. It's yet another cooking show. The contestants are presenting their dishes, each more colorful than the next. "They're always like 'It's just melting in the mouth' or 'Nice and silky,' 'Nice and smooth,' 'Nice and—' whatever. This talk of food's making me hungry." With a too-pleased grin, she snatches at Ivy. "I want my greens."
Sinking down on a spot not occupied by Harley, Ivy brushes the girl's hair from her forehead. Harley hugs Ivy's thighs and twists to rest her head on them. Her face then takes on a rather alarming shade.
"If you're going to be sick on me..." Ivy warns and points the spray bottle at her.
Harley just chortles. "That's one way to keep me hydrated."