In front of one of the jars is a handwritten shopping list -
"TRUFFLES, CIGS, VODKA". Jerome smiles to himself as he
retrieves the note along with one of the jars. He checks the
jar's label. Satisfied with the date written there, he breaks
the seal and pours the contents into the clear, silicon pouch of
an IV-like device lying on the steel bathroom counter.
He seals the pouch and checks the apparatus by opening the valve
on its fine tube and squirting a small quantity of the liquid
into the nearby toilet bowl, as one would test a syringe. We
remain on Jerome's face as he reaches between his legs and
inserts the pouch.
Reopening the refrigerator, Jerome slides out a tray containing
neat rows of slim, fingertip-sized plastic sachets filled with a
deep, red-colored liquid. He removes his gloves, selects one of
the sachets and carefully adheres the sachet to the pad at the
end of his index finger. He prepares a second sachet for his
middle finger. Jerome then applies skin-colored cover-up makeup
to the sachets, blending them in with the color of his fingers.
JEROME, still dressed in his robe, climbs a large, spiral
staircase to the floor above.
INT. JEROME'S CONDOMINIUM. EARLY MORNING.
He emerges at the top of the staircase into a similarly large,
loft-stlye condominium. Through the floor to ceiling window
that opens onto a balcony we see that dawn is only just starting
to leak into the night sky.
In the bedroom JEROME removes a shirt from a drycleaning bag.
Printed on the bag - "Confidentiality Guaranteed". He emerges
from his bedroom, dressed in a smart albeit unconventionally cut
suit. He adjusts his tie in the mirror, careful not to disturb
the sachets attached to his fingertips.