She whimpers at the realization that something is very wrong here. She quickly sits upright, ferociously rubbing her nose and squeezing her eyes shut. Mia rubs her hands together, picks up her handily rolled hundred-dollar bill, and snorts the stuff. She cuts the powder into lines with a practiced hand and it’s clear she’s done this before. She raises her eyebrows and greets the baggie like an old friend, with a “hello” that echoes through the Dolby 5.1 soundtrack. Her eyes, half-lidded with sleepy contentment, grow wider as she recognizes what she holds: a little baggie of white powder, whiter than the couch she sits on or the shirt she wears. Her hand finds something else in the pocket, which she pulls out to lazily inspect. Mia snaps it closed and returns it to the pocket of the man’s overcoat she’s wearing, which swallows her petite frame. She plays with a Zippo lighter, twisting it back and forth. Over the stereo plays Urge Overkill’s cover of Neil Diamond’s “Girl, You’ll be a Woman Soon,” to which Mia bobs her head as she smokes.
Mia Wallace, pretty wife of renowned mobster Marcellus Wallace, sinks back into her plush white couch as she exhales smoke from the hand rolled cigarette she’s holding. “I do believe Marcellus, my husband, your boss, told you to take me out and do whatever I wanted” (Mia, Pulp Fiction)
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