You flush slightly, while reading nothing from Ms. Namura's steelishly composed expression. After exchanging the appropriate formalities, you quickly excuse yourself to the men's room to recompose yourself.
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Having left your stuff at your table, you stroll over in the described direction of the mens'. You pass worktable after worktable, virtually all like your own. A dirty blonde streak flashes from your right, and you half-turn to see a fleetingly high-cut tailored skirt with a cool, darkly-made-up face glance around at you momentarily. |